


Paracelsus

by prufrockslove



Series: The AUs [2]
Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 189,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrockslove/pseuds/prufrockslove
Summary: Georgia low country, summer, 1865. A lost soldier, a bend in the road, a passing stranger, and a chance at a life never meant to be.





	1. 4

TITLE: Paracelsus  
AUTHOR: prufrock's love  
GENRE: AU, Pre-X-files  
RATING: Strong R  
ARCHIVE: Gossamer & AO3 only  
DISCLIAMER: FOX Network owns The X-Files. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made from the use of these characters.  
SUMMARY: Georgia low country, summer, 1865. A lost soldier, a bend in the road, a passing stranger, and a chance at a life never meant to be.

*~*~*~*

Paracelsus: Prologue

*~*~*~*

The year before Fox Mulder’s birth, Mr. Robert Browning wrote of the great Paracelsus's love of a woman, saying Paracelsus and his lover were two halves of one dissevered world. When the hour is late and Mulder is alone beside the campfire, he thinks of the single line from the poem. He turns it over in his mind as he watches the stars and waits for sleep to come. Man and woman: two parts of a divided world, two halves of one severed soul, allowed to touch briefly in a lifetime.

Often, in Mulder’s dreams, they have a family of their own. Three or four dark-haired, high-spirited boys and a few pretty little girls run around. Or, sometimes, she carries their first child and rests one hand on her belly as she walks with him. They have a home in Boston or Georgetown near his parents, so they can visit. Mulder isn't fifteen anymore, but neither is she. She's grown from a beautiful girl into a stunning woman: intelligent, elegant, and in love with him.

In this dream, she's in her early twenties and wears a blue riding habit showing off her figure. She rides sidesaddle as Mulder leads the horse through the quiet woods. It's a warm afternoon, and wild rosebushes line the path. Mulder wears a dress uniform with the buttons and boots polished to a high shine. The insignia indicates he's a decorated officer in the US Army. 

His father is proud of him.

"There's something on your mind, Fox," she says, her words slowed and gently polished by her southern accent. "About secession? Is it coming?"

"Yes," he answers. "I think it's unavoidable. Next month, Mr. Lincoln will be elected. South Carolina will secede, and the rest of the south will follow."

"There will be a war."

He nods. "Many officers talk of resigning their commission and returning home to fight for the south," he tells her as he leads the mare. "Robert E. Lee will go. So will other generals."

"What will you do?" she asks softly. 

Mulder looks up at her. The sunlight outlines her head, making her black hair shimmer. Her eyes are rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and they shine as she watches him. 

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "The north will need experienced officers, but..."

"But you do not want to fight. Not for the north, but not for the south, either."

"No," he admits. "There is no winning a war like this one. These proud, hotheaded fools do not realize it. A civil war ends in death and ruin. They are about to destroy a country they claim to love."

"You will fight, though."

He nods. She knows him well. 

The date is September 1860, and a war brews a like dark storm on the horizon. Mulder will fight in the war and, November 1863, he will die in the war, cut down on a battlefield in Tennessee, near her home. She will hold him as he bleeds to death. She will cry.

But in his dream, they've reached a turnoff from the path. Mulder ties the reins to a tree branch. She slips her boot out of the stirrup, and he helps her slide to the ground. He kisses her. She takes his hand and follows him through the trees, to an abandoned stone church with the roof open to the sky. They have been here before; it is one of their secrets. Today, he unfolds a blanket over the grass in the church foyer in preparation for a picnic for which they've packed no food.

Their parents trust them. They've been friends since childhood, and everyone knows they will marry. Senator Mulder's only son and Congressman Kavanaugh's older daughter; Mulder’s mother will throw the society wedding of the year. 

Neither of them particularly cares for society. 

She takes off her jacket. Mulder takes off his. He slides his suspenders off his shoulders and loosens his collar. They kneel on the blanket, facing each other. He strokes her hair and she caresses his face. He puts his hand on her waist, pulling her body against his as they kiss. She does not object. Or stiffen, or pull away. 

They've never made love. They kiss and touch, though, discovering together what feels nice. When he is away - at West Point and at his military post - Mulder remembers. He's memorized how her hair and skin smells, and how her breathing changes as he touches her. Alone at night, he thinks about her and touches himself. He's yet to go blind.

"I worry so much about you. With a war..." she confesses, her lips brushing against his. "I know you have to go, but I don't want you to. I'm so afraid you won't come back."

"I will," he promises her. "On way or another, I will. I'll find you. I'll wait for you."

He unbuttons the front of her cotton blouse and corset cover. Her breasts are pushed high by her stays, rounded into two globes. He kisses the valley between them, and she shivers. She does not object. Every minister and mother in town preached fear and frigidity to young women, but she likes it when he touches her; that is their other secret.

"When, when you're away," she asks in a hesitant whisper, "are there other girls?"

"No. Never." He raises her breast from the corset. He covers the nipple with his mouth, sucking. She gasps at the new sensation. Her fingers tighten in his hair. "There's never been anyone but you." He kisses across her shoulders. 

He's telling the truth, and she believes him.

"If the war comes, Daddy won't let us be married next fall," she says. "Not if you fight for the north. Not until the war is over."

"I'll fight for the south."

"Fight against your father?" she asks. "For a cause you don't believe in? No."

He raises his head, looking at her pretty face. Their country chooses sides, and, as a soldier, he must throw in his lot with one or the other. War has no neutral ground. Either way, he will lose.

"Marry me now," he says impulsively. "Tonight. We'll run away. We'll elope."

"We can't," she answers, the voice of reason. "Your mother would die. Where would we live?"

"I don't care. We've waited so long. I can't wait any longer."

She studies him for a long moment, and looks away. They can't disappoint their families by eloping, and her father won't let them be married with Mulder out west, fighting the Indians. Once the war comes, their fathers will be enemies. Mulder will be lucky to get to see her, let alone marry her. 

"Don't wait." Her hand slides across the front of his trousers. This fascinates her: how his body becomes hard for hers. 

"We can't. We shouldn't- Oh God."

"Like this?" She rubs the hard bulge growing beneath the wool fabric.

He nods wordlessly.

She unbuttons his trousers, and the drawers underneath, and eases them down over his erection. She pauses. The last time she saw him nude, they were children. He doesn't look like the paintings of male cherubs she's seen.

She runs her fingertips delicately over the shaft. "Show me," she asks. He puts his hand over hers, teaching her how to touch a man. He lets his head fall back, gritting his teeth. The pressure of pleasure builds inside him.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

“Yes,” she whispers.

He moans, and his breaths come faster. “What if you have a baby?”

“What if I do?” she responds with a defiant streak he loves.

Silently, she lies back on the blanket, waiting for him. He pushes up her skirt, petticoat, and chemise, and eases his hands over her pantalets, to the opening at the crotch. The hair is soft, and her hips shift as he touches her. She isn’t a child anymore, either.

He's never touched her there before. He's never touched any woman. 

She closes her eyes. 

He slips one finger inside her, making sure he understands the female anatomy. She feels warm and slick, like the inside of his cheek. He pushes two fingers inside her. She whimpers.

"I love you," he says hoarsely as he covers her. He presses the head of his cock between her legs. "I don't want to hurt you."

He moves forward and feels his body slide into hers. She gasps and he stops, uncertain and frightened he’s done something wrong. She murmurs it is all right. He pushes again and shudders in pleasure. She opens her legs farther. Mulder feels her arms around his neck and her face pressing against his shoulder. Her breath is hot against and her hair smells like lilacs.

He rocks instinctively, each stroke taking him deeper. The sensation is so tight, so hot. He hears her panting in his ear. He thrusts again. She stiffens and cries out, and he's inside her. Not all the way, but enough. The feeling is so powerful he's afraid to move. He is still, trembling, as she is.

She looks up at him with her eyes full of wonder. 

Slowly, he pulls back and thrusts again, watching the mixture of pain and pleasure on her face as her body is filled with his.

"I love you. I'll always love you," he promises her. "Only you."

She draws him down on top of her. He moves again, trying to be gentle, but the urge to thrust is strong. He hears her gasping and crying out, but he cries out as well. He thrusts harder. Tension builds inside his body like a wonderful pressure - a dangerous, seductive precipice. His orgasm comes, sending electricity convulsing through his body. There is a beautiful, blissful release so wonderful it nears pain, and waves of perfect calm. This is love, he thinks. The physical embrace. How a man was meant to love a woman.

He lies on top of her, spent, with beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. "Are you all right?" he asks as he catches his breath.

She kisses his neck tenderly and runs her fingers through his hair. He wants her to be pregnant. He wants to marry her, to have children with her, to spend his life with her. In that moment, all those things seem possible.

"It did hurt," he realizes, as reason returns to him. He withdraws with a final shudder, and presses up on his elbows. "Didn't it?"

Her face is flushed, and her hair is tousled. She's so beautiful. So alive. “It's supposed to, Fox. It's supposed to be like this."

"I know," Mulder agrees hesitantly, and kisses her. 

This is how it is supposed to be.

In the abandoned church no one else knows about, for a stolen afternoon he lies beside her on the blanket beneath the infinite blue sky, holding her close as sleep comes. He opens his eyes, and the dream is over. Mulder is alone. It is night, and she is gone.

She always is.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus, Prologue

*~*~*~*

Begin: Paracelsus I

*~*~*~*

My Dearest Wife,

I remain adrift in a world not my own. I am dead-reckoning, and I have lost track of even where I began. I am a wanderer, which sounds better than saying I am lost.

In each city, instead of searching randomly, I think where I would be if I was a teenage boy. At home, doing as my father told me, I answer, and so I try to think where I would be if I was Samuel. 

I have taken to staking out the bakeries as they put out the apple turnovers, hoping the smell will lure him in. I buy one to take with me in case he is hungry when I find him. General Sherman destroyed most of the railroads in Georgia and the Carolinas, but I go to the train depot next, regardless. It seems like the proper place to wait and look expectant. I find a music hall and ask after him: might they have a handsome, mild-mannered, dark-haired, dark-eyed musical prodigy in their midst? I watch the children leaving the schoolyard in case he has had a change of heart and willingly opened a schoolbook. I check the hospitals, the orphanages, and cemeteries. 

I wonder if I should even write to you I have looked for our Sam among the dead. I wonder if I should tell you I have begun to feel like Don Quixote tilting at his windmill. I am a remnant, and I need some truth I can tuck away inside my heart, some answer as I look up at the heavens and cry, 'Why?' Why am I here? Why didn't Death take me as it took so many others? I need not to feel so infinitely empty and alone. Afraid. I need so badly to believe there are happy endings in this ruined world. I am not sure if it makes me an optimist or a fool.

I suppose I need peace, Melly, and I will come home when I find it. Until then, I will keep searching.

With all my love,  
Mulder 

*~*~*~*

The humid air bordered on solid rather than vapor. Mulder’s shirt, fresh the previous morning, clung to his skin. Sweat stung his eyes. He felt the August sun glaring down at him through the trees, scorching the top of his head beneath his wool cap. Like yesterday and the day before and the dozens of days before which blurred together, the long afternoon refused to end. The sun's high path across the sky dragged on infinitely, defying the constraints of time and logic. The world stopped having rhyme or reason, end or beginning. He felt cut loose - adrift - disconnected from where he began, yet without any end in sight. Too tired to keep searching, yet unable to recall how to do anything else. 

Mulder had spent two summers at the mercy of the sweltering Georgia sun. He first came with General Sherman during the Atlanta campaign. Now he roamed the low country, the local name for the expanse of low-lying swamps and dense forests beginning east of Savannah and spreading north, through the inlets and islands to the South Carolina coast. Throughout the fallen Confederacy, the rebellious cities remained under tight military control, but in the country the hungry, destitute people were lawless. It had been the same in the rolling farmland around Atlanta, in the mountains inland, in Charleston, and now along the coast. The old men, widows, and children narrowed their eyes as he approached their porches in his well-made blue uniform, atop a well-fed horse bearing a government brand. The southerners shrugged and spat in answer to his polite questions, pretending ignorance no matter how innocuous the query or honorable his mission. Once Mulder rode on, though, behind his back, they hissed, “Go home, you damned Yankee.”

Mulder yearned to go back, dismount, and grab them by their tattered shirtfronts and explain through clenched teeth all he ever wanted to do was go the hell home.

He never did, though. He kept riding.

Mulder sighed and gave Shadow a nudge with his heels so the big horse ambled aimlessly faster. Since Mulder hadn't passed another soul in hours, he unfastened the top button on his jacket, but got no relief. Having saturated his shirt, sweat converged between his shoulder blades and flowed down to the small of his back, soaking through his blue uniform and making him itch miserably.

The road wound on for miles, twisting and looping back on itself through the swamp and seemingly going nowhere. Spanish moss and determined vines gripped the trees with their gnarled fingers, slowly sapping their strength. Dragonflies buzzed past his head and birds called to each other - herons, gulls, hawks - warning of his approach, and warily watched him pass from their perches in the treetops. He was the outsider, dangerously suspect and out of place.

Fox Mulder was a tall man, as lean and long-limbed as thoroughbred racehorse. His tanned face was an eccentrically handsome blend of angles, with hazel eyes and full, almost feminine lips he'd been teased about as a boy. Beneath his cap, his hair was dark brown and curled in the humidity. He'd shaved off his beard during the Atlanta campaign, and let his goatee grow back, but shaved it off in summer. Two days ago, he was clean-shaven, but now stubble sprouted from his cheeks and itched along with everything else.

He rode well, comfortable in the saddle and in his uniform; he'd been a cavalry officer so long riding came as naturally as walking. An educated, well-read man, he spoke well and in several languages, but preferred to commit his thoughts to paper. By trade, he ran a newspaper in Washington DC, though his income came from his family's money; by class he was a gentleman, if that still mattered in the tattered, battle-weary world.

As the shadows lengthened across the path, Mulder rounded another turn in the road to find three soldiers standing too close to a lone woman. The government had troops stationed in Savannah and Charleston and at forts along the coast, but these scraggly fellows had no cause to be in the middle of nowhere. Bothering a woman who didn't seem to want to be bothered. A troublesome minority of the Union army thought they’d fought a war so they could rape, pillage, and swindle as they pleased afterward. They did not content themselves with putting down the rebellious south and restoring order; they felt entitled to pick the bones clean afterward.

Mulder encountered too many villains and no heroes these days.

"Leave her alone," he barked. "Let her be, soldier."

"We're paying our respects," the tallest man called. He didn’t look at Mulder approaching behind him. "Mind your damn own business."

One soldier stepped aside, and Mulder saw the pronounced roundness of the young woman's stomach. She was, as Mulder’s mother would say, far gone in the family way. The tall soldier held the woman’s wrist as she tried to pull away.

"The next time you're off duty, corporal, find a working woman in town and pay your respects to her," Mulder said authoritatively. "Get back to your post or I'll shoot you were you stand."

The soldiers turned angrily, but startled as his officer's uniform and insignia.

"Yes, sir, colonel," the ringleader said. The tall soldier nodded to the others. They remounted their horses and, after hollowly polite 'good days' to the woman, disappeared into the cypress trees. Mulder doubted they had any intention of rejoining their troop, but that wasn't his problem anymore.

The woman exhaled as the sound of their horses’ hooves faded away. Brown paper packages lay at her feet.

"Are you all right, Ma'am?" Mulder asked. He eyed her swollen stomach as he swung down from the saddle. "Where is your husband?"

No lady should be without a male escort in these times. Regardless, she looked too far gone to walk anywhere in the sun and humidity and relentless heat. In the city, no lady would appear in public obviously with child; out in the swamps there were few people left to care.

"Yes, I am fine, thank you," she answered quickly. She tucked stray strands of curly auburn hair underneath her broad sunhat. Mulder’s ear detected a soft Irish accent, not fresh to American soil but gently lilting. She glanced up, squinting at him in the sun. He got a glimpse of fine features on a small, pretty, heart-shaped face, with lips drawn into a determined line.

For a few seconds, he stared at her. The back of his neck prickled as if someone stepped on his grave or he saw a ghost.

"Ma'am..." Mulder’s stomach flip-flopped inexplicably.

He exhaled and swallowed, wondering what was wrong with him. The heat, probably.

"Ma'am, may I help you with those?" he asked, remembering his manners. He gestured to the parcels as she bent to pick them up. She missed them by several inches as she tried to reach over her belly. "I will help you with those," he decided.

"I am fine," she repeated for his edification, as though he might not have heard her the first time.

"I did not say you were not," he responded. He stooped down and gathered up the bags. Both packages felt heavy, and one smelled like coffee beans. Coffee was liquid gold these days; she must have been hoarding it. She reached for the sacks, but he moved back. She did not need anything else to carry besides her baby. 

"Thank you for your help, sir," she said pointedly, and offered her arms again.

"I'm not the enemy, Ma'am; the war is over. I'm not interested in your packages, but if you want, I can carry them for you. Or put them on my horse. You shouldn't be out without an escort, wherever it is you are going.” He paused. “Where are you going?"

"Town." She watched warily as he began to secure the bags on his saddle. 

"Which direction would town be?" All the burnt plantations in the low country had begun to look alike.

"Five miles north."

"You plan to walk five miles carrying these?"

She folded her arms above her belly as if annoyed he would question her. The part of Mulder accustomed to obedient women toyed with leaving her and her parcels beside the road. The bored, lonely part dismissed the idea.

"I would send a servant, but my husband's servants went with the soldiers," she explained. Her rhythmic Irish accent rounded her consonants and lilted the vowels. "I would drive a buggy, but his horses went with the servants. I would ask my husband to go, but he has not come home from the war. I would wait, but time is not going to wait on me much longer," she explained as he finished attaching her packages to his saddle. "I do appreciate your help, sir; I do not mean to be rude or ungrateful, Colonel. Those men... I am tired and unnerved."

“Both are understandable. Those men will not be the last of their kind you encounter, though. Unless you have a pistol, you will not reach town with your coffee beans.”

He felt her eyes watching him steadily. “Colonel, we had soldiers in Ireland. If those men wanted my coffee beans, they could have picked them up and taken them.”

Instead of agreeing, Mulder said, “I saw a river crossing a few miles back. If that is your destination, would you allow me to accompany you?"

"I could not impose."

"But if happen to be in possession of a pistol, a rifle, an officer’s uniform and a horse – and I was going in that direction..." 

"But you are not," she reminded him knowingly.

In answer, he took the horse's reins and led Shadow in a tight half-circle so he faced north. Mulder gave her a half-grin, and she smiled back in tired amusement.

"Yes, Colonel. I would be grateful for the escort," she decided.

At her smile, the prickling at the back of his neck drained down his spine and created a curious warmness in his belly. Mulder blinked and wiped one hand across his brow, clearing away the sweat and the odd sensation.

"I-I would put you on Shadow," he said, stumbling over his words, "but he can be skittish. I would hate to risk you falling."

"It is all right. I am fine. I can walk."

"All right." He began to lead his horse by the reins, walking slowly to accommodate her pace. She was small; he could have rested his chin on top of her head. He did not, of course. "My name is Mulder, by the way. Since we will be traveling companions for a bit."

"Oh, I am sorry, Colonel Mulder; I am Mrs. Waterston." She offered her hand awkwardly. He glanced at his own, noticing it lacked a glove and was none too clean as he shook hers. "Mrs. Dana Waterston. My husband is Dr. Waterston."

"It's Mr. Mulder. I stopped being Colonel Mulder months ago; the horse and the blue uniform are convenient federal remnants I have not taken the time to address. Anyway, I am pleased to meet you, Ma'am. I am sorry those soldiers harassed you. They are supposed to keep order, not stir up trouble."

She nodded, and he started walking again, thinking their salutations were finished. Instead of following, she stopped. She put a hand on her belly. A curious expression crossed her face. "I need a second please, Mr. Mulder."

Her second stretched to a tense eon as he waited. Mulder tried to figure out a delicate way to say it. Delicacy and diplomacy came as naturally as setting himself afire, so he said bluntly, "Ma'am, you need to go home and rest. It is too hot for you to be going anywhere in your condition."

"I need things for the baby," she insisted. She drew a deep breath and stood up straighter. "The servants took everything from the house.”

“Your condition-”

“My condition slows my progress but at least gives ill-mannered soldiers pause.” She looked up at Mulder again. “How do you think I would fare with those same men in a month, when I will carry this baby in my arms?” 

Her assessment of her predicament, though correct, gave Mulder pause. He’d never heard any female allude to rape, let alone regard her pregnancy as a strategic defense. After some thought, he offered, "Let me take you home, and I'll go to town and trade for whatever you want. I am going anyway, and I can ride there and back by nightfall."

"Or you could take my coffee beans and sugar and disappear," she countered. She pressed her hands against the small of her back as if it ached.

"Yes, I could. But I won't." 

"How can I be sure?"

He slipped his wedding ring off his finger and offered it to her. "Here. I do not want your coffee or sugar, Ma'am, but you can be sure I will come back for that."

Clearly, the heat affected his judgment. Otherwise, he didn't know what possessed him. He had a wallet full of greenbacks if he wanted to offer her collateral on his return. His wedding band hadn't left his finger in fifteen years; his hand felt strangely light and bare without it. Mulder wanted to retract the offer, but he didn't.

"Some men would be happy to be free of such..." She paused as if searching for a word. "Tethers." 

"Many men would." The ring glinted in the afternoon sun as he continued to hold it out between his thumb and forefinger. "I am not one of those men," he said. "You have my life; all I have is your coffee beans."

She looked up, scanning his face for something. Seeming to find it, she glanced away and held out her palm for the heavy gold band.

*~*~*~*

Mulder didn’t know the propriety of entering a deserted mansion. No maid or butler would greet him, but barging in seemed rude. He pushed the front door open, knocked loudly and called for Mrs. Waterson. His voice echoed in the empty foyer. He ventured deeper inside, through a battered shell once a beautiful plantation house. Discolored squares of wallpaper marked where paintings hung, and the mahogany floor and furniture looked naked, stripped of every object of value. 

The Negro servants hadn't known what to take as they fled. Candelabras and silver spoons couldn't be traded for food if no food remained to trade for. With all the able-bodied men at war for four years running and the ports closed to cargo ships until last month, much of the south silently starved. Vast fields of rice, cotton, and tobacco went to seed. Mills stood idle. Smiths' and coopers' and carriage-makers' and butchers' shops remained closed. No fishermen cast nets, no hunters brought in meat and pelts. Included in the silence were the graves of a quarter-million men who died trying to defend their way of life.

"Here," Mrs. Waterson called from the back of the house. Her voice sounded small and lost in the darkness of the kitchen. "I am here, sir."

"I did not intend to be gone so long. I am sorry if I worried you, Ma'am." Mulder set the packages on the kitchen table, fumbling in the flickering light from a single candle. "You said the nearest boat dock was five miles away, but the nearest place to trade for anything is Savannah. I thought I could be back yesterday."

"I was not worried, Mr. Mulder," she said quietly, from the shadows. 

"You should be worried: living here, alone. I would not be happy if you were my wife," he scolded as he untied the bundles. "I have seen no one for miles." He picked up the candle and stepped closer to her voice. She slouched in a wooden chair near the cold fireplace with her arms cradling her belly. "What if something would-"

He saw her jaw widen as her teeth clenched. Her eyes closed and her head tilted back in pain. 

"Is it time, do you think?" 

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed. 

"Is there a doctor or a midwife?" he asked, knowing the answer. "A neighbor? I will get them. Is there anyone, Ma'am?"

"No." She exhaled slowly. "I will be fine."

"All right. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. I am grateful for all you have done, Mr-" She panted. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. “Mr. Mulder.” 

"I, uh, um," Mulder said. "I will wait, and, uh- Outside. I will wait outside." He was a skilled hallway pacer, excellent at imagining the horrors happening on the other side of the door. “On the porch. In case there is something you need.”

"Thank you, Mr. Mulder," she answered between shallow breaths, "but I cannot think of anything I need from the porch.”

He suspicioned she made fun of him, but he wasn't sure. He assured himself she had a dozen children and could manage this easily – despite looking barely out of her teens and scared out of her wits.

"All right, I will, uh-" He’d started backing out of the kitchen, afraid to look away, but she moaned like an animal in pain. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" He returned so he could hover helplessly. "I am taking you to bed," he decided, glad to be of some use. He helped her stand, grabbed the candle, and asked urgently, "Where is your bedroom?"

"You are dashing, but I am a married woman. You are a married man."

"I mean you should lie-" He realized she made an off-color joke. "Oh, you are funny, Ma'am. Very funny," he said sarcastically. 

He helped her to an adjacent room once belonging to the cook. She sat down, and he stood nervously at the end of the bed. "I will be outside. Call if you need me." 

He reached the door before another contraction came and she cried out. 

Now he loomed over her again. 

"There must be something I can do," he insisted. He dripped candle wax on the old quilt. "Anything?" He reached for her hand anxiously and knelt beside the rusty iron bed. “Ma’am?”

"I am all right," she assured him, closing her eyes.

"Do you want me to leave?" 

She shook her head no and murmured unintelligibly in Gaelic. He waited a few seconds, and she asked, "Do you have children, Mr. Mulder?"

"I think, in this situation, just 'Mulder' would be fine. Yes, Melly and I have a son. Samuel. Sam."

"Tell me about Sam," she requested, "Just Mulder." 

"He's handsome. Talented. Kind-hearted. What do you want me to tell you, Ma'am?"

"Tell me about anything outside this room. Tell me about your family, Mr. Mulder. How long since you have seen them?"

"I saw Sam last fall with General Sherman. I looked up and discovered he'd run off and joined the Army."

"And your wife?" she asked.

"The last time I saw her? More days and nights than I want to count." He held her damp hand. The candlelight flickered over her face. "I was home on leave at Christmas. Home is in Washington, near the Capitol," he added, searching for something to say. "It's the big house with the constantly broken window; my son and I play baseball in the yard, and he keeps hitting the ball through a front window by mistake. Baseball is not his talent, it seems, and he can break windows faster than I can replace it."

She scooted farther up in bed, bracing herself against the headboard. She rested her head against the pillow and took long, slow breaths.

"You are all right? Nothing is wrong?" Mulder asked. He kept his eyes focused on her face rather than anything happening below her waist. "Or do you know?" 

"My mother is a midwife. My cat had kittens, once," she answered and managed a tired smile. 

He marveled she found any comfort in his presence. Both their medical expertise combined barely constituted half a nurse, and it was not his body this child tried to come out of. The one birth Mulder had witnessed involved a colt, and made him queasy.

"What can I do to help?"

"You have a nice voice. Will you talk to me? Tell me of Sam and Melly?"

"Tell you of Sam and Melly?” he echoed. “It is the usual story. Melly and I grew up together. We were neighbors. We married as soon as her father allowed it, and Sam came soon after. He was Melly's sixteenth birthday gift. We talked about more children, but I was away at school, and Melissa was ill for a time. The war, of course. Melissa had a baby coming, though, the last time I saw her."

"Your wife is going to have a baby?" 

Mulder nodded as he set the candle aside. He cleared his throat. He put his arm around her shoulders to help her sit up farther. "I plan to be pacing my usual route in the upstairs hallway while the doctor delivers my daughter," he promised, and wondered what possessed him to say that.

*~*~*~* 

"Can you hear me, Ma'am?" Mulder asked tensely. He watched her face for any response. "Ma'am, it is Mulder. Mrs. Waterston? Dana? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

Dana Waterston’s fingers pressed against his. He squeezed back and massaged her palm with his thumb.

"Thank God," he said, and exhaled. She opened her eyes. "I was worried. You were bleeding..." He lacked the courage and tact to finish the sentence.

"Baby?" she asked. She looked from side to side in the tiny, shadowy room. The candle died hours ago, leaving Mulder to deliver, bathe, and swaddle the newborn by moonlight - which might have been a blessing.

"She is fine," Mulder told her. "Be still. You have a little girl. Are you all right?"

She nodded, looking pale and woozy and uncertain what had happened. Frankly, he was uncertain what happened except for pushing and screaming - some from him - and, underneath lots of blood and tears, a new human being. God overlooked the war-ravaged nation, the endless fields of weeds and dead soldiers, and Mulder's ineptness, and slipped a bit of humanity between the cracks in civilization. 

Mulder decided it best to let go of Mrs. Waterston’s hand.

"That has to be the most amazing, horrible thing I have ever seen. Birth, I mean, not your daughter. She is beautiful."

"Is she?" She turned her head tiredly to see. Mulder shifted the tiny bundle of towels in the crook of his arm to show her the child's face. The baby was cleaner and less red than earlier. Mulder had not realized they arrived so mottled and ugly, nor amid so much mess. 

He laid the bundle beside her. "As far as I can tell, she is perfect, Ma'am." 

"She is." She pushed away the towel to stroke the infant's tiny hand. "Hello, little girl," she told the baby, who pursed her lips in response.

As Mulder watched Mrs. Waterston meet her newborn daughter, a strange sensation came over him. It trickled down his backbone as it had on the road, when he encountered her. He felt the urge to push her hair back from her face and kiss her forehead, as if she was his wife rather than a stranger and the child theirs instead of hers. It seemed second nature to sit carefully on the bed beside her and lean close, with butterflies swarming in his stomach as he admired the baby with her. The baby would nurse and sleep; he would lie beside Dana, keeping watch as she rested. Those impulses were faded memories, something that happened eons ago and been long forgotten. 

Mulder did none of those things, of course. 

Instead, he said, "So many miracles in one small form. It is amazing what love and God can create." He studied the baby’s tiny face as the first flickers of dawn appeared on the horizon. "Welcome to the world, little one. Such as it is."

*~*~*~*

Mulder knew he wasn't a man who set women's hearts fluttering with his flowery complements, but he wasn't a gangly, tongue-tied adolescent, either. Mulder managed to string a sentence together - sometimes eloquently - to get his point across. He knew the difference between the male and the female of the species, and where babies came from, so he was surprised at his sudden bashfulness around Mrs. Waterston.

Once the crisis of birth passed, Mulder felt an immediate need to be anyplace else. He struggled to face her the next morning, like a groom who spent his first night with the bride. What seemed acceptable in the darkness now made his face feel hot and necessitated him sitting in a chair across the room and staring intently at a spot on the wall above the headboard. He feared leaving her alone, so he adopted a distant, overly-solicitous air, pretending he had no idea how her baby came into the world. 

Since Mulder was the cook, he and Mrs. Waterston subsisted on whatever combination of flour, lard, water, soda, and salt he created. He could make tasty biscuits, except for the burnt part on the bottom. She ate without complaint and listened as he rambled on, eager to fill up the silence. She fell asleep in the middle of his story, but he didn't take it personally. She had called him dashing, with a nice voice, the first compliments he'd received from a woman in a long time. Granted, it was a married woman in labor, but still... Giving a man a license to talk about himself was like milking a bull: do it once and make a friend for life. 

"How did your son get in the Union Army at thirteen?" She’d finished the not-black part of her breakfast and brushed the crumbs off the bed sheets. Mulder had moved her and the baby to a more comfortable room, and left long enough to clean up the mess downstairs and fix something to eat. 

"By the end of the war, they took soldiers wherever they could get them. Sam was tall. He was a good shot. He slipped away from his grandparents and lied about his age. And his name, since I could not find a Samuel William Mulder-" He couldn't bring himself to say it. "I didn't know whether to burst with pride or put him over my knee when I saw him with General Sherman."

"He must have scared you and your wife to death."

"I wish I could have spared him the reality of war,” Mulder said, tilting his wooden chair back. "He's such a gentle spirit. He'll hunt and play ball to humor me, but he has an artist’s soul. Like his mother. If it has strings, he can play it. If it will stand still, he can draw it."

"You miss your Sam and Melly," she said, making a statement rather than asking a question. "It is good to see a man who adores his family."

"They are my life," he said easily. "My talented Samuel and my beautiful Melissa. They see a beauty in the world I cannot, and it is an empty place without them."

"Go home, Mr. Mulder. I am grateful to you, but your wife needs you. Emily and I will be fine, and you have better things to do than play nursemaid to me." 

He had kept his face arranged in a friendly, polite expression, but turned to look out the window. "My wife is not going to have a baby," Mulder said. "Wishful thinking, I suppose." He sat the chair down on all four legs with a sharp thump, and stood quickly. "I am sorry I lied to you. I'll come back and check on you in a bit."

"Mr. Mulder-" she began, but he shook his head.

He tromped down the grand staircase, across the foyer, and out to the broad porch. Sitting heavily on the front steps, Mulder looked out at the vast swamps, so dense they remained dark at mid-morning, so hostile they could swallow a teenage boy as thoughtlessly and completely as a frog swallows a fly. Mulder slouched forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and let his head hang wearily, for the first time beginning to admit defeat. 

*~*~*~*

"Is everything all right, Ma'am?" 

Mulder reached the kitchen still pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. Long before dawn, he and a hoot owl began tense negotiations regarding who could sleep where in the old barn's hayloft. Mulder, in a strategic retreat, went to backyard pump to rinse off before daylight. He’d been mid-scrub when he noticed the smell of bacon frying.

"Should you be up so soon?” he asked. “I don't think you should be up so soon, Ma'am." He drew on his two-day-old knowledge of obstetrics. "Go back to bed. I will do that, Mrs. Waterston. You need to rest." 

"I have rested. Now I am fixing breakfast," she answered casually. She poked at the contents of the frying pan with a fork and elicited a mouth-watering sizzle. "I cannot let you wait on me, Mr. Mulder. It is not right." 

He wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds before he understood. “Oh, of course, yes, but circumstances- Uh. I understand how bad it looks for me to be here, but you just had a baby, for pity's sake. I did not even sleep in the house." He swallowed awkwardly. "I will take you to stay with your parents, wherever they are," he said decisively, "Or to one of the homes for widows and orphans. If you feel well enough to travel, leave your husband a message and he can come for you when he returns. You cannot live here alone. Your husband will understand. I would understand if you were my wife. You cannot endanger yourself or your daughter."

She stared at him long enough to be discomforting. Shaking her head, she laughed as she turned a slice of bacon. 

"What is it?" Mulder asked defensively, caught off guard. 

"I am not a soldier you can order around as you please and, as you have pointed out, I am not your wife, either. Not all women whimper and hide under the bed every time a shutter rattles or a Yankee passes through, Mr. Mulder."

"I did not say they did," he said, floundering through a novel situation. She might look like an angel, but she had the temperament of a mule. The charming dichotomy was challenging. More charming after coffee. "I did not mean to order you around, or say you had no vote in where you live. I'm trying to help, Ma'am."

"I am trying to politely say I cannot stomach any more of your biscuits. I had no intention of debating propriety or women's suffrage before breakfast. Please, sit down and eat."

"Oh," he said, and exhaled.

"Do you want coffee, Mr. Mulder?" She took a cup from the shelf above the stove and set it in front of him. "Then, we can debate."

He chuckled, sat down, and nodded yes.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus I

 

Begin: Paracelsus II

*~*~*~*

My Dear Melly, 

Perhaps idealism is the final luxury of youth, as Father says - a romantic's way of refusing to see life as it is: short, nasty, and brutish. According to Father, I am an idealist, among other distressing things. I search for the best in this world, like the Greek philosopher who carried an unlit lantern in his quest for the truth. Unlike Diogenes in Athens, sometimes I find it - but were I least expect it. In long afternoons of physical labor under the sweltering southern sun; in newborn babies mewing and steaming mugs of coffee at dawn; in lingering twilights and cool breezes off the swamp and quiet conversations about nothing of importance, to my surprise, there is peace.

In my mind, I see you wrinkling your pretty forehead in bewilderment. You do not need to understand my rambling. I have set down my lantern for a moment so I will not drop it in exhaustion. For a few heartbeats, I have a comfortable life - or lie - and a hundred excuses not to leave it. Normalcy, with its gentle routine and placid smiles, is as seductive as any woman, and I let it envelope me as if I belong.

Earlier, my friend saw a daguerreotype of you – the one where you were irritated with me and look as though ice water runs in your veins – and commented on how beautiful you were. I opened my knapsack and eagerly showed her the rest of my photograph collection of you and Sam. She said I had a lovely family. I agreed, not knowing what else to say. I had a lovely family, Melly, especially in the photographs. She wrinkled her forehead at me, like you did, and I wish I could bring myself to explain, because I think she might understand. 

I know I won't post this letter, but I'll sign it anyway, with my love,

Mulder 

*~*~*~*

Though Mulder couldn’t fathom why, this woman caused him to come down with a sudden case of idiocy. He composed a fine sentence in his head, but it left his lips as "Good day, Ma'am. I brought you cows, among other things."

Yes, Dana Waterston was pleasant to look at; Mulder had eyes. In fact, he thought her the third or fourth prettiest woman he ever encountered. Yes, he was lonely and they briefly shared as much romance and intimacy as an old slave's bed, moonlight, and a placenta offered. She listened to his Sam stories and gave him a shoulder to cry on, which didn’t mean she felt more than gratitude and friendship. As he felt toward her. Dana had her bed and baby - and husband - and Mulder had his barn and pictures of Melly. Never the twain would, or should, meet. 

"Those are not my cows, Mr. Mulder," Dana told him. She carried a basket of eggs as she emerged from the chicken coop. "I thought you went to Savannah. Have you returned, or have you been wandering the swamps, lost, since Tuesday morning?"

"I did go to Savannah. As I returned to continue my search for Samuel, I found these cows near the river. They are not branded. Do you know who owns them?" Mulder kept one hand on each of the rope halters he had fashioned. She shook her, so he announced, "Until the cows say otherwise, they are yours. I thought they would be good, for the baby."

"I do not know if she likes cows, Mr. Mulder." 

"For milk," he added, as though she might think he brought them to be pets. "For Emily."

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. He cleared his throat and found something on the horizon to look at. How underhanded: her being a woman on purpose to distract him. 

"Thank you, but that cow does not have any milk, Mr. Mulder. She will not until she has a calf. Your other new friend-" She gestured to the big creature contentedly chewing on his sleeve, "Is a bull."

"I know," Mulder said defensively, and jerked his wet sleeve away. "They do seem fond of each other. In time, a calf - and milk - should be forthcoming."

If there’d been a doctor within twenty miles, Mulder would have consulted him about treating this sporadic case of verbal stupidity. He probably required cold baths and bottles of anti-idiocy tablets. 

Dana’s arms remained crossed. "I apologize for my ignorance, but I come from a family of sea merchants. Please tell me, Mr. Mulder, how does one tell if cows are fond of each other?"

His first impulse was to respond saucily, 'Ma'am, I can't say in polite company,' but he restrained himself. Instead, he bit the side of his tongue before something else foolish tumbled out of his mouth.

"All right. Put them inside your posts," Dana decided. She leaned on one he had set. Mulder had found repair projects to keep himself occupied as she recovered, and rebuilding the corral seemed a fine, time-consuming idea. Unfortunately, he got as far as setting the fence posts; it lacked any actual enclosure. "Tell them where the rails should go. I am sure they will understand. From what I have observed, cows are bright, obedient creatures." 

"You are a very difficult woman, Ma'am," he said in frustration. He could not blame her disposition on her heritage. His parents had Irish servants; those women did not behave like this. Dana was only the third or fourth prettiest, but by far the most stubborn, impertinent woman he ever encountered. And Mulder was the fool who kept returning to speak with her. Chop her firewood. Weed her garden. Rebuild her corral. "I did bring you cows. And coffee beans."

"Did you think I desperately needed cattle, or did you need an excuse to come back to check on me? I promise my daughter and I can breathe without your supervision for a few days."

"I noticed the cows wandering, realized I was near your place, and I thought you could use them. You can't have cows without a corral. And, and I do not like going off and leaving my fence half-done," he said, using a tone that he'd thought sounded like he meant business.

"I thought that was the case," Dana answered, managing not to collapse into a puddle of pliant womanhood.

"Are you telling me you want me to go? I will finish my corral and go," Mulder said firmly. He crossed his arms in imitation of her posture and hoped he didn't look like a child threatening a tantrum.

"I did not invite you to stay in the first place and I am not telling you to leave. You come and go like the tide. I could stand on the shore and yell, but the ocean would ebb and flow as it pleases. I might as well save my breath."

"It doesn't seem you save your breath," he mumbled low enough for her not to hear.

She surveyed him a moment, and shifted the basket of eggs to her other arm. "I am glad you returned, Mr. Mulder," she said more warmly, her Irish accent lilting prettily. "I was not certain you would this time. Where is your horse?"

"Shadow's tied near the first river crossing."

"With coffee beans in your saddle bags?" she asked.

"Yes. Along with some white sugar I happened across." 

She considered another moment before she said, "Tie the cows up, and come inside and eat before you go back to get your horse."

"You would have preferred I brought the coffee first and gone back for the cows?" he said, teasing her.

"I would, but I suppose I will take you as you come."

He grinned, wiped the cow snot off the back of his hand, and followed her inside the house.

*~*~*~*

Mulder finished his letter, folded it, and tucked it safely inside his knapsack before adding enough kindling to the fire in the stove to keep it burning. As August ebbed away, the days remained stifling, and the nights slightly less so. The windows were open, so for the moment the breeze from the coast cooled the house enough it was bearable. Mulder sat on one wooden chair and propped his black boots up on another. Little flames danced behind the cast iron grate. As he waited for Dana to put the baby to bed and return downstairs, he looked around the kitchen, idly taking stock.

The wallpaper behind the stovepipe peeled, and the stove needed polishing. The kitchen window and floor were scrubbed clean, but the kindling box empty; he'd need to chop more firewood before he left for Savannah again. Dana had planted a garden in the spring keeping her in vegetables, for the time being. She had an orchard. The plantation was so isolated the army hadn't raided it for supplies, so a few hams remained in the smokehouse and chickens in the coup. She had cornmeal and flour, but the supplies dwindled.

Stray pigs and steers roamed the swamps, but she lacked the strength and skill to butcher one. There was plenty of wild game and fish if she'd known how to hunt or fish. Theoretically, she could make lye soap and tallow candles and other necessities, but that was time-consuming and hard, dirty work. Like most plantations, the land had a blacksmith’s forge, a cooper, a tannery – all idle. Dana would run out of old sheets and blankets to cut up for clothing for her and the baby. The barn looked ancient, and the main house fell into disrepair. Mulder patched the house and barn roof, but more tell-tale brown stains appeared on the mansion’s upstairs plaster ceiling. Outside, the front steps of the plantation house bowed, the paint peeled, and weeds sprouted in the yard where the lawn should have been.

Mulder entertained thoughts of returning to replenish her pantry and help with repairs, but it took dozens of slaves to run a plantation. He might keep her supplied with food and firewood, but one man could do little to stop the advancing decay.

He heard Dana making her way down the stairs, and he stood as she entered the kitchen. She carried a basket of soiled diapers on her hip and looked tired.

"She is asleep?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Are you wanting to wash those, Ma'am? Would you like me to carry in some water?"

"Thank you, but they can wait," she replied. "I am sure there will be more by tomorrow morning."

"I am sure." He took the basket from her and set it aside. "It never ends, does it?"

She looked up at him quizzically as she rubbed the small of her back.

"The work around here."

Dana straightened, rolled her shoulders, and squared them. "No, it does not seem to. But it does pause for a moment," she replied. "I think I will sit outside for a bit. Will you join me, Mr. Mulder?"

He nodded and followed her through the house and to the broad front porch. The rockers on the porch had been sacrificed for firewood at some point, so she sat on the steps. Mulder put his knapsack aside and sat on the step above her, a proper distance away. The sky was mottled with violet and orange clouds as the sun sank down. Vines crept up the pillars and moss grew over the stones around the empty flowerbeds, slowly taking back the big house.

"You finished your corral," she observed. The two cows stood penned inside it, chewing their cud contentedly.

"I have finished your corral," he corrected. "I covered the window upstairs with paper; I will get more glass the next time I am in town. I saw the kindling box was low, but it is nearly dark; I will have to see to that tomorrow."

"Thank you. I am grateful for all you do, Mr. Mulder."

"I am glad to be of some service, Ma'am," he answered politely. "I wish I could do more."

"I wish I could repay you. If you will permit me, I will speak to my husband about compensating you when he returns."

He tried to think of a tactful way to say, firstly, he did not want payment, and secondly, after so many months, he doubted her husband would return home.

She turned, looking up at him quizzically.

"It is kind of you to offer, but I would not permit you," he said. He added with mock seriousness. "Charity is a virtue and physical labor cleanses the soul; please do not tempt me from the path of righteous purification."

Her blue eyes twinkled. "Mr. Mulder, I know there is an English word for so much nonsense in one sentence, and I wish I could remember it."

He grinned at her impishly. "Malarkey. Hooey. Hog-wash."

"I think my brothers used a different word. They were sailors."

"I'm sorry; I was in the cavalry, Ma'am. We weren't as colorful."

She laughed.

The chickens clucked to each other in the hen house as they settled in to roost. Somewhere in the shadows of the empty slave quarters, a bullfrog sang. The breeze blew rustled the strands of hair escaping Dana’s braid. Little beads of perspiration collected at the base of her throat. 

The step creaked as he shifted. "There is a way you could repay me, Mrs. Waterston."

He heard the tiniest hesitation before she asked, "How, Mr. Mulder?"

"Ease my mind. Allow me to take you and your daughter to Savannah, and to find a safe place for you to board until your husband can come for you. Ma'am, you cannot continue to stay here alone," he said earnestly. "The swamps are full of deserters and criminals, and you are defenseless. Sooner or later, someone will stumble onto you. Even if, by providence, you remain undiscovered, you cannot manage this place alone. Not and care for your daughter as well."

"But I am not alone. I have my sarcastic friend Mr. Mulder, who has appointed himself my intermittent champion, midwife, carpenter, and cattle wrangler," she replied, looking back at him with a smile. 

His expression remained serious, and her smile faded. She turned away, toward the darkening swamp.

"I do know, Mr. Mulder. I have thought about that since you left. I did not realize how much work there would be in caring for a child, or how tired I was, or how much you helped until you had gone. As you say, it never ends. I do understand your concern but, regardless, my husband told me to remain here."

"Ma'am, I know you want to follow his wishes, and I would never advise a woman to disobey her husband. However, I cannot believe he would want you putting yourself and your daughter in harms way. If you were my wife, I would have expected you to go to Savannah as soon as you learned you were expecting," he said. "Your responsibilities to your husband include your responsibility for the safety of his child, do they not?" he asked sternly.

She continued to study the horizon and didn't respond.

He noticed his jaws aching, so he unclenched his molars and exhaled. "I am sorry. I was impertinent. You are not my wife and Emily is not my child. It is not my business and, of course, you are free to do as you like. I wanted to express my- my concern. Again."

He shifted uncomfortably, making the warped step groan.

"But I am not free to do as I like, Mr. Mulder," she said. "Am I?"

"I don't understand."

"After so long with no word, I know it is unlikely my husband will return. I know how vulnerable I am here. But, Mr. Mulder, in America, once I leave this place, there are rules for women in society. I have no family, no resources, nowhere to go, and a respectable woman cannot make her way alone. There must be a man to speak for her, however superficially. I understand those rules, but... But for now, I would rather remain here."

"You mean that if your husband is dead, you do not relish marrying again," he said. "Yet you know, as a respectable young woman and a mother, with no other prospects, you cannot remain unmarried."

In answer, she adjusted her faded skirt. She folded the fabric over so a patched place didn't show.

"So you hide out here in the swamps?"

"And you return to hide with me," she responded. "Intermittently."

"Intermittently," he agreed, and studied on her profile.

"I do not mean to, to, to cast aspersions against Dr. Waterston," she added, seeming uncomfortable. "Or against the sanctity of marriage or a husband's right to have dominion over his wife."

"I would never think that was the case, Ma'am," he responded politely. "You are correct, though. Society has rules. Even if you have no concern for yourself, you have your daughter's future to consider."

"Yes." 

Her posture remained tense, and she stared at the horizon, avoiding eye contact with him.

Dana was bright, and too pretty and bright to not know her own beauty. She could look for work as a governess or cook or housekeeper, but legions of other young widows sought any respectable employment, as well. She lacked references, and wealthy men who hired pretty young housekeepers without references were not men Mulder wanted employing Dana. Even if she found work, there remained her daughter’s care. Mulder had published articles about desperate women dosing their babies with laudanum and leaving them hidden as the mothers worked. Those babies had not lived.

Mulder knew nice, marriageable men. Dana had been a doctor’s wife, and he knew many working-class men pleased to meet a pretty Irish widow. Even an older, wealthy widower. John Byers would like Dana, but Byers was married. Mulder tried to think of which among his unmarried acquaintances or employees at the newspaper he could introduce her – but realized none of those men still lived. Once he returned home, Mulder would be hard-pressed to find enough boys and maimed old men to run a newspaper, let alone a single, young, whole man worthy of Dana.

"I am not judging you, Ma'am,” he said. “Only trying to think of something helpful."

Her profile nodded.

"Men follow a leader who is worth following. My father taught me that. A worthy commander: his soldiers will defend him until their dying breath. If he is not worthy, though - if he is merely a noisy fool or a bully or another man's puppet - no oath can hold their allegiance. Yes, I know you are not a soldier," he said as she opened her mouth to remind him. "I mean this: perhaps it is not the following, but the man you follow."

"Perhaps," she agreed carefully.

"The woman is the weaker vessel, yes, but some are weaker than others. I expect to guide my wife, but she needs guidance. I think being married to you would be like driving a stubborn team of oxen; a man must watch the direction they choose carefully, and yell it out in a loud, authoritative voice to give the appearance he is in charge."

She laughed, and he saw her shoulders rise and fall as she exhaled and relaxed. "You are a smart man, Mr. Mulder."

"I'm a man who tries to pick his battles carefully," he responded. "A husband who knows on which side his bread is buttered."

She paused, still amused but perplexed.

"It's an American saying," he explained. "An idiom. It means I know what my priorities are, which of two things is the most enticing. In this instance, it means I would rather have a woman's respect than her perfect obedience. In my experience, one follows the other; it is that way with soldiers as well."

"On which side my bread is buttered," she repeated as if committing the saying to memory.

"There's also knowing 'which end is up' and 'where I hang my hat' and 'where I park by boots' and many, many more American idioms unfit for polite company."

She laughed again.

He leaned back, propping his elbows on the step above and crossing his ankles. The lightning bugs flashed at the edge of the yard, signaling each other. Above the trees, a broad stroke of violet lingered on the horizon, but the first stars appeared.

"I know an American phrase, Mr. Mulder. You coming all the way out here again to bring me coffee beans, and spending a pretty evening speaking with me? If I had neighbors, they would gossip we were 'courting.' Is that correct?"

His posture didn't change except he turned his head away, looking at the shadowy trees. 

"Oh, it is not correct, is it?" she said regretfully. "I am sorry. Is, is it vulgar? It's something else my brothers said. Of course it is vulgar. Those boys- If Bill or Charlie said it, I should have known. I thought it meant a man and a woman spending time together; does it mean, does it mean they are lovers?"

"No. No, the phrase is not vulgar." He sat up and reached for his knapsack. "Your usage is correct."

"But my usage is wrong in this instance?"

"I wouldn't know about courting, Ma'am," he responded coolly. He knew he was being an ass, but couldn’t stop himself. "As I said, I married young, and I remained married. Like you, I know something of how societal constraints dictate our lives."

She gathered her skirt, preparing to stand. "Mr. Mulder, I am sorry. I did not mean to suggest your intentions were dishonorable. I have said something wrong, but I am not sure what."

He looked down at the steps, embarrassed. "I have said far more than I should."

Seeming flustered and upset, she said, "Mr. Mulder, I know you are devoted to your wife. I understand married people do not 'court,' if that is even the right word. I meant to make a joke: what neighbors might say if they saw us... Saw us enjoying each other's company."

He stood, slung his pack over one shoulder and descended a few steps. "I'll bid you goodnight, Ma'am. Your reputation with the neighbors and all."

She stood and, since she was on the step above him, was at his eye-level. "There are no neighbors, Mr. Mulder. Not for miles."

"Even more reason. Goodnight, Mrs. Waterston," he said softly. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Mr. Mulder," she responded as softly, and he turned away from her, toward the old barn.

*~*~*~*

He heard light footsteps approach the porch, and Dana’s voice asked, "Why did you not wake me?" 

Mulder stopped rocking the cradle. He stood politely. “You were sleeping.”

“I was,” she agreed, and yawned and stretched. 

She smoothed her skirt under her hips and over her knees as she sat on the porch steps. The air had changed, electrified. A storm approached, and she’d brought a shawl with her against the chill. Dana tried several times to drape it around her shoulders, but it twisted and wouldn't cooperate, so she stared at it in sleepy bewilderment.

Mulder sat down again. He leaned back against a peeling white column as he smiled at her drowsy disarray. "Emily's still sleeping; she's no trouble," he explained, gesturing to the tiny form in the homemade cradle beside him. "I didn't want to disturb you unless I had to. You-" He left off the words 'needed to sleep.' Melly had taken his lightest utterances as Gospel. If he'd said the sky was falling, Melissa would have agreed. Dana was not Melissa. An hour ago, he discovered Dana asleep on the sofa, a pillowcase she was mending crumpled on her lap and the baby asleep on a blanket at her feet. "You were resting," he said instead.

"Where did you find the cradle?" she asked as she put her shawl over the baby against the breeze starting to murmur through the swamps.

"I'd thought I would make her one, but I found this in the slaves' quarters. I scrubbed it and let it dry in the sun," he added, not sure how she would feel about her baby sleeping in a Negro child's cradle. "It is simple, but she seems to like it. If she was my daughter, I'm sure there would be pink satin bunting and gilded carving, so I could say she had the best. I am foolish, and my parents, far worse."

"Yes, if she were your daughter, I am sure there would be pink satin and gilded inscriptions and fireworks to announce her arrival." Dana looked past him, at the ominous clouds rolling in from the sea. The clouds toppled over each other in their hurry to reach the shoreline. "You have a son."

"It would not matter if I did not," he responded truthfully. "Son or daughter, I would welcome any child my wife gave me, and I would thank God for her and the baby's safe delivery." 

"Again, I am not your wife, Mr. Mulder," she said softly.

She had never said it directly, but he sensed her husband wouldn't be pleased to find a daughter instead of a son when he returned - in the unlikely event he returned. Every man wanted a boy, but it wasn't reasonable to demand one, as if the woman had control over the sex of the child. Any husband who chastised his wife for having a girl was a fool, at least in Mulder's reckoning. 

"Ma'am, I did not mean... Your child is as content in this bed, covered with your shawl, as she would be in the fanciest cradle. She is cherished and shielded from the evil in the world. Her mother loves her, protects her. No gold and satin can equal a mother's love. That is what I meant. I lavished Samuel with everything but silk diapers and pet elephants until he was old enough to fight back, and I'm sure I would have done the same if my daughter had been born."

He found Dana watching him with inquisitive blue eyes. 

Mulder knew she wondered about the moody stranger who frequently took up residence in her barn. Dana was out of bed two days after Emily came and back to her chores in less than a week, and yet August blended into September and hedged at October, and Mulder still hadn't ventured far away. He chopped firewood, hunted, fished, mended fences, helped with the baby, and fixed the hole in the roof of the barn, much to the owl's dismay. He made several trips to send telegrams home and continue his search for Sam, but found an excuse to return to the low country to check on her. As she said, she let him come and go as mysteriously as the tides, as though he was something she accepted rather than tried to control. 

"Melly became ill after Sam came," he explained, his words barely a whisper. "Even with the best doctors and hospitals, it was a long time before she could come home. At least, I thought she was well, and she wanted another baby - we wanted a little girl - but her illness returned even worse than before."

She blinked. He cleared his throat and fiddled with his wedding band. 

"There's a storm coming," he said. He squinted at the black sky as the wind began to pick up. "A bad one. You're shivering. Take the baby inside before the rain starts. I'll carry in some firewood and water, and close the shutters."

"Mr. Mulder..."

"Yes, she is dead," he admitted. "She died last summer, and the baby died with her."

She tilted her head. "You write to her. I see you write to her."

"I write letters to her. She will never read them."

"I am sorry," she said. Dana put her hand on his forearm and slid it down until their fingers intertwined. “I am so sorry.”

"Now you think I'm insane," he mumbled miserably.

"No. I do not. The war killed both my brothers and my father with a single torpedo. All three were aboard the USS Tecumseh when it sank in Mobile Bay. For months afterward I was certain there had to be some mistake. I was a good wife and daughter and sister, and God would not do this to my family. To me. I had done everything everyone expected of me, and God would not do this to me. No, Mr. Mulder, I do not think you are insane," she said gently. "Do you know of Samhain?"

He shook his head.

"On Samhain, at summer's end, some people still believe the fairy gates open for the night, and the dead can roam between this world and the next. In Ireland, we would light candles so our loved ones can find their way home. I think that is all you are doing, Mr. Mulder. Summer ends and you hold a candle in the darkness for lost souls. Death does not stop love; it merely changes its form. You loved your wife and daughter, as I loved my family."

She squeezed and released his hand. The baby stirred. Dana picked her up and disappeared into the house. Mulder remained on the porch steps, but he watched her walk away.

*~*~*~*

Mulder didn't even have a house key. He realized as he stepped from the evening train onto the platform in Washington DC. His key remained in Georgia along with everything but his wallet, revolver, and the blue uniform on his back. When the telegram arrived, he'd gone straight from the officers' tent to the train station and to Washington. If his commanding officer had refused the emergency furlough, Mulder would have shot him and told the Federal Army where they could shove their damn war.

It spoke to Samuel’s own moral fortitude, despite his grandparents’ efforts at spoiling him, Sam Mulder was not a willful, ungrateful boy. He was imaginative, but not prone to whims or fits of temper. Even as a small child, Samuel was even-tempered and soft spoken and wise beyond his years. Having always possessed prodigious musical skill, he was puzzled by the attention his violin or guitar attracted – likely the way Mulder be surprised if people were awed by Mulder’s ability to stand. Samuel seemed born with a gentle spirit, and could calm Melissa when Mulder could not. Sam had not inherited Mulder’s love of the printed word but, in the last months, in his brief letters, Samuel wrote to Mulder of becoming an older brother.

"Mother ill stop come home now stop," Samuel had telegraphed on Monday morning. The urgent, terse telegram reached Mulder by noon, and Mulder had two days on a series of excruciatingly slow trains to imagine all the words his son left out.

Mulder spotted a familiar carriage approaching through the crowd, but he looked twice at the young man at the reins. According to his internal clock, Samuel should be eight or nine, and yet the calendar insisted the boy had turned thirteen.

"The train was late," Mulder said, stating the obvious as he climbed in. "I was ready to jump off and run the last ten miles."

"The stationmaster said a freight train derailed near Alexandria," his son responded. As soon as Mulder's backside met the padded seat, Sam clucked to the horses, forgoing any formal greeting.

"Thank you for waiting," Mulder said, not sure what else to say. "I came as quickly as I could."

The road in front of the depot was crowded with buggies and light gigs. Sam chewed his lower lip as he waited for a slow-moving wagon to pass. He had to stop short to avoid for a group of matrons paying more attention to their gossip than the buggies. Mulder did not need to ask about Melly’s condition; Sam keeping the horses at a racing trot through the congested streets and the tired purple shadows under his eyes were answer enough.

"I didn't know what to do," Sam said, not looking away from driving. "The doctor came, but she won't let him examine her. Poppy can't come to work. I didn't want to send for Grandfather; I, I was afraid he'd send Mother away. Maybe that's what she needs, but-"

"You did the right thing. I promised she wouldn't go back there. Why isn't Poppy at the house?" Mulder asked. "Has her time come?"

Sam nodded hesitantly. Their long-time housekeeper – who was Sam's former nursemaid - was unmarried and, as of late, quite pregnant. That was grounds for her dismissal, but there was a war. Poppy was family, more or less. Melly was expecting, as well. Mulder needed to rectify the situation, but so far successfully avoided doing so.

"Poppy didn't happen to find a husband, did she?"

"No sir," Sam answered as he drove.

"I'm not going to send her away, Sammy. Not Poppy nor her child. I'm not sure what I'm going to tell Grandfather once he hears of this, but I'm not sending Poppy away. We need her."

Sam let the horses slow a bit. He tilted his head as though his neck ached.

"You're tired, Sammy," Mulder said, again observing the obvious.

"Yes sir," Sam answered. He took another deep breath, seeming calmed a bit by his father's presence. 

Mulder laid his arm along the back of the seat with his hand on Sam's shoulder. "You did the right thing," he repeated. "I'm proud of you. And, despite the circumstances, I'm glad to see you. My God, you're so grown up. You've grown a foot since Christmas. You’re as tall as I am."

"Poppy says I look like a string bean and eat like a draft horse."

Despite his exhaustion, Mulder snickered, and got a hesitant smile from Sam.

"Next time, tell Poppy you draw like Michelangelo and play like Mozart. She won't know who either of those men are, so she won't be able to say a thing."

His son nodded. His lips moved silently, repeating the line and memorizing it for later use. Sam glanced sideways, seeming to note his father's beard, and commented, "You look like a grizzly bear, Father."

"You look like the war's caused a scissor shortage. When was the last time you had a haircut, son?"

Sam flicked Mulder's beard. Mulder swatted at the back Sam's black hair, which fell past his collar.

"It seems like I was home a few weeks ago instead of months. Melly must be..." Logically, she must be obviously pregnant, but Mulder struggled to imagine it. "Is she, Sam?" he asked awkwardly.

Sam nodded again and said, "I sketched her yesterday. I know I shouldn't, but I don't think she noticed me, and I won’t show it to anyone. I thought... I didn't know how long it would be before you could come, and if... I thought you would want the drawing if something happened to her." 

"Thank you. Yes, I do want it. But nothing's going to happen, Sam. Everything is going to be fine. Your mother's going to be fine."

Sam considered a moment and asked, "How long will it be, do you think, until she notices me?"

"It's hard to say, Sammy. A few days. Longer. Maybe a long time. When she got sick before, it was a long time."

"But she's going to have a baby soon."

"I know," Mulder said softly. “The doctor will be with her. Once the baby’s born, she’ll have a wet nurse. The nurse can take care of your sister. You and I can help. Poppy can help. Your mother can rest and get better. That’s what we did when you came.”

In the same hesitant tine, the boy asked, “Is it having a baby that makes her so upset?”

Mulder had survived one bayonet wound this war. Now, a dull, imaginary saber pierced his abdomen and made its way upward, aimed at his heart. “She wanted this baby, Sammy. She wanted you. I-” He would have said “I didn’t do anything wrong, Sammy,” or “I don’t know, Sammy” but since neither was truthful, he said nothing. 

They passed the next several blocks in silence.

"How is the campaign?" Samuel asked, looking for something to talk about. Mulder owned the Washington Evening Star. The boy spent his days sketching amidst reporters and newspaper presses; Sam knew every detail of Sherman's campaign.

"We have Atlanta under siege. It should fall in a matter of months. Once we take Atlanta, we've cut the Confederacy in two, destroyed their supply lines, and there's no place else for them to run. I should be home for your and Melly's birthday," Mulder promised. "I won't miss it again."

Next year Sam would be fourteen and Mulder would be thirty, almost thirty-one. At an age other men first considered taking wives, Mulder had been married for half his lifetime. He'd been sixteen when Sam came, so they'd grown up together with Mulder floundering along as best as he could. Melly had been there, of course, but also, in her Melly way, not there.

The buggy stopped in the circular drive in front of a familiar brick mansion, and they were home.

"Father?" Sam said uncertainly, still holding the reins. "Will she be all right?"

"I'll see to her," Mulder responded with one foot on the ground. "It will be fine. You did a good job, Sammy. You did the right thing." 

His son nodded, barely moving his head. 

As the father, Mulder should say something of great moral comfort. Some pearl of wisdom for the ages. "Go rub the horses down,” was the one thing he could think of. “You've been pushing them hard, and it's hot. They could catch a chill."

Sam nodded again, and the buggy rolled away, swaying toward the carriage house and stable.

Melly’s young maid met Mulder at the front door. She took his cap and whispered nervously, "She's upstairs, sir. Welcome home, sir." 

People whispered when Melly was ill, as though whispering might help. The servants should know better, but everyone had gone home for the night except Melly's ladies' maid, a girl seldom in charge of anything more important than hairpins. The maid waited at the bottom of the front staircase as Mulder hurried up. He glanced back. She’d twisted her hands in her apron and watched him expectantly.

Mulder felt too young to have so many people look to him with a trusting, Mulder-will-take-care-of-it expression.

"Honey?" he called softly. He pushed open the door of their bedroom. The bed was unmade. Uneaten trays of food sat on the nightstand. The lamp wasn't lit and the sun set, so the room was a contrast of the fiery red and the encroaching shadows. "Melissa? Melly? Where are you, honey?"

He heard a frightened whimper, and saw her toes peeking out from the space between the dresser and the bed. The toes led to bare feet and shapely bare calves. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, pulling them as close as possible to her chest. Except for her hair, which covered her back and veiled her face with black mist, she was nude. Melissa huddled against the wall as though she could disappear into it, terrified.

"What are you doing down there, honey?" he asked, leaning casually against the foot of their bed.

She shook her head, sending her hair flying. "Shush; he'll come back," she whispered, childlike. "Be quiet. Fox's gone and he'll come back." 

"He won't come back, Melly. Your father's dead. He's been dead for years."

"No. No, no, no, no," she repeated mechanically, and began rocking back and forth. "He'll come back."

"Do you know who I am? Look up at me."

"Fox?" Melly guessed in a tiny voice. 

"I'm not going to let him hurt you. Come on out from there, Melly. I don't like it, and you've upset Samuel."

She stared up at him with huge, frightened eyes. Her chin quivered. She nodded no again and huddled even tighter. "Go 'way. He's bigger than you."

"I'm not going to let him hurt you. Trust me, Melly."

Mulder offered his hand, but didn't make any move toward her. He could grab her and wrestle her out, but it made things worse; he'd learned the hard way a few weeks after Sam’s birth. After a minute, she reached for his hand, grasped it like a lifeline, and let him help her to her feet.

As much as he would have liked to look at her, putting on a nightgown or chemise helped calm Melissa. To her, clothing was armor and she could never have enough.

"That's my good girl. We'll get you a bath, let you get some rest, and you'll feel better," he assured her. He slipped her arms into her dressing gown and tied the sash high to accommodate her belly. "Look at this," he said, running his hand over the swell. "What do we have here? What have you been up to while I've been off preserving the Union?" 

Melly had been leaning her forehead against his shoulder, but looked down at his fingers stroking the silk fabric. She covered his hand with hers for a few seconds, and backed away. 

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"No. No, no," she started again, looking through him.

"What, honey? 'No,' what?" 

She stroked her belly, staring at it as though it hadn't spent seven months in the making. She rubbed harder, like the pregnancy was a wrinkle she could smooth away, and harder until she kneaded so roughly it frighten him.

"Whoa; easy." He stopped her hands. "What's wrong? Try to tell me. Talk to me, Melly." 

"He did this. He did this. He did this. Get it out. Get it out, Fox. And don't tell. It's bad. Bad, bad, bad, bad."

"Shush," he murmured. "No, he didn't do this. Calm down and try to remember. We did this, Melly. Not your father. Your father is dead. He's been dead a long, long time. This is our baby; I was home for Christmas, remember? I was wounded. We talked about a little girl and now we're going to have one; you wrote you were certain it was a girl. We did this. This is our bed, in our house. This is our baby - our baby girl. You wanted this; you were so happy when you wrote to me. Do you remember? Try to be my big girl and remember. I need my big girl back."

With his fingers still loosely around her wrist, she lowered her hand back to her belly, rubbing at it like a stain on the rug. She shook her head, her face crinkling to cry again. 

"Trust me. We did this. Don't hurt the baby. I want you to take good care of the baby."

"What did he put inside me?" She sobbed in horror. Mulder had to stop her hands again. "What did he do?"

"No, your father is dead. We did this." He kissed her forehead and trailed his nose down her cheek. "Try to remember. This is our baby girl. I'm not your father. You're not a child. You're my wife and I love you and we didn't do anything wrong. I'd never do anything to hurt you, honey."

"You did this?" she said shakily, easing her rubbing. "You did this to me?"

He pushed her long black hair back from her tear-streaked face. He smiled bashfully. "I suppose I did."

"You did this? What's Daddy going to say?" 

Mulder exhaled tiredly and put his arms around her. He rubbed her back. She stayed still, like a trapped wild animal realizing there's no escape.

"It's fine. You let me deal with him. You eat and rest and take care of the baby."

"You're still my friend?" she asked in that sing-songy babyish voice that made his stomach twist.

"Yes, we're still friends," he assured her.

He coaxed Melissa out of the bedroom, and down the hallway, and carefully down the elaborate staircase. The young maid waited at the bottom of the front stairs, twisting her hands. 

"Mrs. Mulder needs to eat," Mulder told the maid. "She needs a bath. Heat some extra water for me to shave, too, before you go home," he added, "I think my beard is scaring her."

Seeming to recognize the maid, Melly started to follow her to the kitchen, but stopped and looked back.

"Go on," Mulder directed. "Go with her. It's all right. I'll be right there."

"You did this to me?" she asked with one arm cradling her belly. "You put this inside me?"

The sixteen-year-old maid's face turned scarlet.

"I did." He wanted her calm; they'd discuss propriety another night.

Her maid tugged on her hand, and Melly followed, seeming unsure what was happening. Melly was obedient by nature, and once she understood what he wanted, she'd spend hours trying to do it perfectly. He'd have to lift her out of the bathtub and carry her to bed to get her to stop scrubbing.

Mulder moaned as he sat down on the sofa, and pulled off his boots for the first time in days. He lay down for a few seconds. He heard hot water gurgling from the stove reservoir in the kitchen and the maid talking to Melly, trying to get her to eat. The stable door opened and closed: Samuel taking care of the horses. As the world grew dark and hazy, Melly's maid asked if he wanted to shave. Without opening his eyes, he waved his hand dismissively.

"Mother?" Samuel's voice asked sharply, and screamed, "Father! Daddy!" 

Mulder bolted upright in the dark library.

"Daddy!" he heard again. 

Mulder scrambled to the back of the house. His son stared through the open doorway of the room off the kitchen they used for bathing. Melly liked to soak until she pruned, so Mulder installed the biggest bathtub he could find, much to the chagrin of the Poppy and maids who had to heat and carry the water to fill it. There was a basin and a mirror too. The inexperienced maid had laid out a towel and his shaving brush, soap and a mug, and the strop to sharpen the razor. A lamp burned in the window, casting a gentle, peaceful yellow glow over the calm water filling the bathtub to the top.

He thought for a moment the young maid hadn't been able to find his old straight razor. 

*~*~*~*

"Get the doctor!" he yelled into the blackness. Sam was crying. Melly was hurt and Sam was crying. Mulder heard it all around him. The pain was so tangible he tasted it in his mouth and it encased his world like a shroud.

Sitting up, Mulder scanned the dark barn as he tried to get his bearings. Army revolver in hand and naked to the waist, he scrambled to his feet. He listened and tried to place the noises into some context. His breath came hard and fast as his body prepared to take on whatever was out there. He'd kill it if he could find it.

It was the storm. The wind and rain punishing the roof and walls. It howled like a tormented soul, but it was a rainstorm. 

Exhaling, he stared into the darkness and waited to relax. His fingers tingled around the Colt revolver and a trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades. Every nerve was alive and alert, waiting, watching.

One of the shutters on the house had worked loose and banged. After listening to it slam back and forth for a few minutes and realizing he didn't want to go back to sleep, Mulder got up and dressed, deciding to get an early start on the day.

To his disgust, after he got his shirt soaked running to the house, stubbed his toe in the darkness, and had the parlor window refuse to stay up and bash him on top of the head, the shutter had the indecency to fall off. He leaned out the window, still holding it. The rain plastered his hair to his skull. With both hands full and the window sash threatening to brain him again, he blew a drop of water off the tip of his nose and considered his options. So far, the day did not look promising. He wasn't going to fetch a ladder and fix the shutter in the dark, and the worst of the storm had passed, so he let the shutter fall to the ground.

As he closed the window and contemplated making himself a cup of coffee, he heard it again: the baby crying. This time he recognized it as Emily and, without thinking, trotted up the steps to get her.

He stopped in the hallway. Dana's bedroom door was open. He had not meant to intrude. She'd never expect him the house hours before breakfast, and she would never expect him to be upstairs unannounced for any reason. 

Through the doorway, he saw a woman's silhouette pick up the wailing baby and carry her to the window. She fiddled with the front of her nightgown as she walked. One handed, Dana raised the window and unfastened the shutters, looking out at the black and gray sky. The wind blew the wrong way for rain to come in the window, but a sudden swirl of damp, electrified air into the room made the curtains billow like the sails of a ship. She held the unhappy baby against her chest as she tilted her head back, seeming to enjoy the lighting-scrubbed wind as though a part of it. 

He never would have guessed she'd do something so frivolous or sensual; she had her secrets, this woman. 

Dana laid the baby down, making Emily squall louder. To Mulder's wide-eyed surprise, Dana gathered her nightgown up and pulled it over her head, revealing nothing underneath. No, there was something underneath; he could tell, even in the shadows. There was something nice underneath. 

The droplets of water streaming down the back of his neck turned to steam.

Dana wrapped a big blanket around her and picked up Emily again. She sat down in a rocking chair beside the window. The baby stopped crying, and he heard greedy suckling sounds. Dana's profile stared out the open window again, watching the storm rolling over the treetops as she rocked. 

Mulder realized he hadn't moved in a long time. He exhaled silently, blowing every bit of air out of his lungs. The baby was fine. He should never have been upstairs in the first place. 

Without a sound, he turned, slipped down the shadowy hall, and descended the staircase, avoiding all the squeaky steps. Except for a few drops of water on the floor where he had stood, no evidence remained of his presence outside her bedroom.

He needed to go home. She was married. She had a baby. He had started to make a fool of himself. 

'Started?' his conscience asked, recalling her joke about courting. Bringing a woman gifts - even banal ones like coffee and cornmeal – and keeping company with her into the night? Her use of the term was correct. Lingering in the shadows, watching a lady undress? The term was ‘voyeur.’ As much as he wanted to call himself her friend, Mulder didn't bring Byers or Frohike expensive gifts, nor want to see them unclothed.

He suspected his interest might be reciprocated, at least in some manner. She didn't strike him as a woman who casually shared her secrets, and yet she told him of her brothers' and father's death, of worrying about having no word from her husband in months, and of her concern about her husband's reaction to their daughter. Except for the night Emily came and yesterday evening when she took his hand, they'd never touched. She had a baby, for pity’s sake. Dana hadn't said or done anything improper, and maybe he imagined it. Or maybe he did not. Mulder wouldn't be happy if his wife was so friendly with a strange man in his absence.

He needed to go home, Mulder thought. He lay down on the worn sofa in what once was the front parlor. Mulder told himself he stayed in the house because of the storm and he'd get up long before Dana and she'd never know. Another shutter could work loose or the roof could blow off or - hell - something. Mulder wasn't picky. Truth could be beautiful, but so could lies.

*~*~*~*

Mulder had an important and proper reason to be in Dana’s bedroom, staring at her as she slept. Mulder would remember the reason any second.

She wore an old chemise rather than a proper nightgown. A chemise fit under a corset and below the neckline of a dress, so it draped low, revealing the tops of her breasts and the slope of her shoulder. She could have easily untied it to nurse, but she must have preferred to take it off so the baby was against her skin.

Any second. 

The thin cotton had been washed over and over and dried in the wind and sun until it was transparent and probably soft as silk. The chemise should have reached her knees, but twisted around her hips up to her thighs. And, as if to torment him, she shifted, bending one knee up while the other fell outward. Back home, Mulder had a pornographic photograph of a woman in the same inviting pose.

Any second.

A thick braid of auburn hair fell over one shoulder, but countless strands had slipped out during the night and curled around her face and shoulders. Against the patched white sheet, she was a study in pale ivories and the crimsons of her hair, her lips, and under her chemise, the dark suggestions of her nipples and Mons Venus.

Any second.

Her hands lay on the pillow on either side of her head. All he had to do was unbutton his trousers and drawers, and lie down. Cover her mouth with his, her hands with his, her body with his. He had no desire to force or hurt her, and he would have to be careful, but if she did not object... 

An insistent voice in his head, masquerading as the voice of reason, assured him she would not object. 

Mulder couldn't feel his lips or fingertips, but his groin possessed plenty of sensation. Dana should learn how to close a door. If she was his wife, he'd teach her how to close a damn door.

She shifted again, and the lace hem of the chemise crept up farther. Mulder, fearless soldier he was, started feeling woozy. 

For his own preservation, he covered her with the top sheet, managing not to touch her or make a sound. He backed slowly to the hallway, closed the bedroom door, took a deep breath, and knocked loudly.

Luckily, by the time she woke and answered, he remembered what was so important in the first place.

"It's Mulder," he called as though she might be expecting someone else. 

The door opened a crack. She peeked out, smoothing the stray auburn wisps back from her face. "What is wrong, Mr. Mulder?"

"There are people coming up road from the river. A mulatto man and a White woman with two boys and a toddler. The man has a rifle. Could the woman be one of your friends? A neighbor coming to call?"

"There are no neighbors." She yawned, forgetting to cover her mouth. "Maybe they are lost."

"They'd have to be very lost. No one comes this far out in the swamp without a reason. What about the man? Could he be one of your people coming home?"

"Do you mean one of my husband's slaves?"

He nodded. "Some of the freemen who couldn't find work in the cities are returning to the plantations. He doesn't look like a field hand, but maybe a valet or a butler?" 

She had the sheet wrapped around her torso so it covered her from chest to toes. She adjusted it tighter before she opened the door another few inches. "He is not one of my husband's slaves."

"How can you know without looking? It must have taken a hundred people to run this place."

"They will not return because I told them not to. This is my husband's country house and his overseer ran it, Mr. Mulder. We lived in Savannah, but he sent me here during the war so I would be safe. When the Yankee Army got close to Savannah, his overseer left to join the fighting. He left me in charge. As soon as the proclamation came from Mr. Lincoln, I had the Negroes to take everything they could carry and get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible, in case the overseer came back. Luckily, he did not."

"You little abolitionist." He leaned against the door jamb and grinned at her. "I wondered where everything went: the china, the silver. Our Army didn’t get out this far to loot, and this is the only plantation house I've seen without an old cook or mammy still with the family. What does your husband think of this?" 

"He does not yet know.” She added in her defense, “I did nothing against the law." 

Mulder raised an eyebrow but returned to the topic at hand. "If this man isn't one of your servants, and the woman isn't your friend or neighbor, who are they, Ma'am? Look and tell me if you know them." 

He offered his binoculars. She re-wrapped the sheet around her one last time and opened the door. 

"Do you have a dressing gown?" He felt uncomfortably warm as he trailed into the room after her.

"I did. Now I have clothes for the baby," she answered, going to the window she'd opened a few hours earlier. "No, I do not know them," Dana said, and handed the binoculars back to him.

Mulder looked again, watching the light-skinned Negro man carrying a rifle and leading two little boys on a horse. A stunning, dark-haired woman followed, also on horseback, riding sidesaddle with a toddler in her arms. "I'd say those are her children, but he's not the father. They are close, though: the man and woman. The boys know him. What could they be doing out here? Oh shit," he said under his breath. 

Mulder shifted the binoculars, adjusting the focus. On the man's hip was a sleek pearl-handled pistol. Mulder hadn't been worried about the hunting rifle, but the stranger carried a dueling pistol as a regular sidearm, not stuck in his belt the way he would if it was new to him.

"What is it, Mr. Mulder?"

"Wait here."

He retrieved his weapons from the barn and returned to her bedroom. She still stood at the window, looking like someone gave the Venus de Milo a pair of binoculars. "The man pointed to the smoke coming from the chimney. He is having the woman and children wait at the edge of the trees. He kissed her, Mr. Mulder, and he is coming this way. He has a pistol, Mr. Mulder."

"I know. Ma'am, look at me. Look at this." He held up the .40 caliber single-shot Derringer he'd carried in his boot during the war. "You have one shot. It's ready to fire. If you need to, aim like you're pointing your finger and pull the trigger. You can't shoot far, so wait until he's close, and be prepared for it to knock you backward."

After handing the Derringer to her, he checked the Colt Army revolver. He made sure all six cylinders were loaded with a ball and powder, and the pressure caps were in place. He shoved the revolver back in the holster on his hip. His bowie knife and saber were on his other hip and, except he hadn't worn his uniform jacket in weeks, he looked the part of a Federal Cavalry officer again.

"I get this little gun? You get a big gun and two knives and I have this?" She held the Derringer by the handle with two fingers as if it smelled bad. "Do you have anything else, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder stared at her, not sure if he was insulted or amused. "What would you like, Ma'am?" 

"I feel like I should throw this at him, pick up the baby, and run."

He pondered for a second, but retrieved the rifle he'd left in the hall and unfastened the cartridge and cap boxes from his belt. From the expression on Dana's face, it was a more acceptable means of self-defense. 

"It's a .52 caliber Sharps carbine, made to be loaded and fired on horseback. It will stop a buffalo at two hundred yards, and I can verify it will more than stop a man. And probably knock you back about ten feet. Would this be better?"

She handed the pocket pistol back to him, still held daintily between her index finger and thumb.

"I'll have to load it. Watch." In rapid succession, he pulled a linen cartridge from his cartridge box, opened the breech, shoved the cartridge in, closed the breech to ram the bullet and powder in the cartridge, opened his cap box, fished out a cap, and placed the percussion cap on the nipple. Cocking the hammer back, he asked, "Do you think you could reload if you had to?"

"I think I can hit him the first time." She took the rifle and seemed surprised at how heavy it was. Still wearing her Greek Goddess toga, with her loose braid hanging down her back, she held it up, looking through the sights. "Am I doing this the right way?" 

"You're, uh, close enough." Sensation flooded his groin, and he cleared his throat. "I'm going to meet him in front of the house. I'll find out what he wants. I'll handle this, and it's probably nothing. Maybe they're lost. Don't shoot unless you have to, and for God's sake don't shoot me."

She squinted through the rifle's sights again and spread her legs farther apart to stay balanced. She tilted her head sideways, biting her lower lip in concentration and sliding her fingers over the long ribbon of polished steel. Mulder left the cartridge and cap boxes on the windowsill on the off chance she could manage to reload and, looking at her again, cleared his throat a second time and went downstairs to confront something less dangerous.

*~*~*~*

"Far enough," Mulder said from the porch. He came down the front steps. "What's your business?"

"Sir, I am looking for Dr. Waterston's place," the light-skinned Negro man said politely. He spoke in a New Orleans drawl with a faint hint of French behind it. 

"You've found it." Mulder regarded him steadily. 

The man's brown eyes stared back, not hostile, but unflinching. "Doctor Daniel Waterston of the Chatham Volunteers? Surgeon in Company E of the 47th Georgia Regiment?"

"Under Colonel's William and Edwards," Mulder added. "This is his place."

"You are not Dr. Waterston, sir."

Mulder's hand casually nudged the handle of the pistol on his hip. So far, the man hadn't made any move toward his own weapon. "What is your business?"

"Did you know Dr. Waterston? Is this his land?"

"I think I've answered," he responded, keeping up his end of the razor-edged banter. "What is your business with him?"

"I have his wife and family with me."

"His wife and family are upstairs."

The man's eyebrows twitched. There was a pause before he clarified, "His other wife and family. His colored family."

"Oh," Mulder said. He backed toward the house, standing clear in case Dana decided to shoot after all.

*~*~*~*

Dana beat those biscuits as though she had a personal vendetta against them. Mulder lurked near the stove and waited for her to cry, but she didn't. The more Dana didn't cry, the more Mulder wanted to.

"She seems nice," he said, trying to sound optimistic. "She is quiet, which is nice in a woman."

Dana exhaled loudly and didn't look up from making a late breakfast for seven. The kitchen table was floured. The biscuit dough was dumped out, and attacked with a rolling pin and a biscuit cutter. 

In retrospect, Mulder could have said something more comforting.

He scuffed his boot against the edge of the stove and stared at the kitchen floor. "Do you understand what he is saying? What 'placage' is? She was not his wife. She was his legally contracted uh-" He worried the word around his mouth before he said it aloud. "Mistress."

"She was his wife and they have three children. Yes, I understand."

"She is an octoroon. One-eighth Negro. She was brought up to, um, please wealthy white men. Une femme de couleur. They are legendary. In New Orleans, light-skinned Negro girls are placed - placage - with white men and kept as mistresses, sometimes briefly, but often for months or years. Sometimes for life. The woman gets a house and servants, and the children of the, uh, arrangement are educated and inherit as the man's white children do. But she was not his wife. He could not have legally married her before the war. Do you understand?"

"I understand she has a ten-year old son, a six-year old son, and an eighteen-month old son. I understand my husband and I had been married six years. I understand his commanding officer wrote to her Dr. Waterson had died, but did not think to write to me. Yes, I understand."

"She did not come here to hurt or insult you - only to see what her sons inherited and make a fresh start. She never knew you existed, as you never suspected she did. In New Orleans, every wife is sure her husband is the one man who does not keep a placage mistress. Every mistress is sure her benefactor either will never marry or married out of duty, not love. Do you understand? It is-"

"Stop it!” she barked at him. “Please. My English is good. Thank you, but I understand, Mr. Mulder. Please do not explain anything else to me."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, hanging his head. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Why not launch into one of your lectures about how you would not be happy if I was your wife?" She shoved the pan of biscuits into the oven. "Brag how your wife gave you a son at was sixteen, and my husband's mistress has three sons to my one daughter. Tell me I am too plainspoken and bookish and proud. Say I would be a lovely woman if I kept my eyes down and my mouth shut, and remembered my place and purpose."

"Ma'am, I never said those things to you," he reminded her, though he could venture a guess as to who had.

"Tell me again I am difficult, Mr. Mulder," she continued, not seeming to have heard him. "If I were your wife, you would think me irresponsible with our child and disobedient and far too friendly with a strange man."

"If you were my wife- I would never have done this to my wife. She was too delicate to be hurt."

"How nice for her." Dana slammed the cast iron oven door closed.

At a complete loss for anything to say - wise or otherwise - he turned and walked out of the kitchen without looking at her.

*~*~*~*

For a woman who'd become both a wronged wife and a widow in one day, Dana held up much too well. Aside from some well-mashed mashed potatoes at dinner and a tendency to talk without moving her lips, she acted normally.

Which worried Mulder.

Benjamin, the light-skinned mulatto man, had been the doorman at the quadroon balls where white men came to choose and mingle with their mistresses. That explained the contrast between his graceful, gentlemen's gentleman demeanor and the dangerous glint in his eyes; he'd watched a woman he loved follow Dr. Waterston into a bedroom for the last twelve years.

The breathtaking but silent woman, Dori, was exactly what Mulder told Dana: the daughter of a quadroon slave and a white Haitian plantation owner bought by Dr. Waterston at the age of seventeen. She'd been kept comfortably in New Orleans until Dr. Waterston stopped visiting her after Christmas. Emily was two months old, so the good doctor had been home to see Dana last fall. And fighting a civil war, too; he had been a busy man. 

Mulder heaved himself up the ladder, into the barn’s loft, and flopped on his back on his bedroll. Sighing, he folded his hands behind his head. He crossed his ankles and stared up at the crossbeams of the old roof. His shoulder hurt, and the old scar on his chest ached. It was too early to go to sleep but too late to find some chore to keep him out of the house. Normally, he would go to the kitchen and read a newspaper or book aloud to Dana, or watch the baby while she had a chance to bathe or take a nap, but he felt awkward around her tonight, as though it was his fault she was hurting.

Something rustled in the corner. Mulder turned his head, thinking he and the owl would wage war again. Instead, he saw Dana sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her folded arms. The black tips of her shoes and the auburn knot of hair at the back of her neck were visible; everything else was obscured under a huddle of faded calico fabric. 

Mulder’s heart hiccupped. He opened his mouth to say 'Melly,' but managed to reform it into "Ma'am? Ma'am," he repeated. He scrambled to his feet and bashed his head into one of the crossbeams of the roof, adding a companion goose egg to the one from his predawn encounter with the window. "Are you all right, Ma'am? Mrs. Waterston?"

Of all ludicrous things, Dana nodded earnestly she was fine as she sobbed. 

"Oh." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ducking to avoid any more headaches, he went closer and, squatting down, asked again, "Are you sure you are all right?"

"I am fine, Mr. Mulder," she said through her tears, still not raising her head. "Why would I not be?"

"Where is the baby?" 

"With the woman. Dori."

"Is Emmy all right? Is anything wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong with Emily. Why do you always ask me?" she asked in frustration. "Do you think something is wrong with my baby?" 

"No, I-" He rubbed his fingers nervously over his trouser legs. "You have had such a horrible day. Do you want me to take the baby for a little while?"

She inhaled shakily. After another breath, the worst of her tears seemed to pass. "No. She will be hungry soon." 

"Do you want me to go away and leave you in peace?"

"Yes," she said, so he sat down.

"I have been thinking, Ma'am. I understand Dr. Waterston left this place to Dori's sons, but he did not know about Emily. Right? He did not know you were expecting?" He waited for her nod. "Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves, but Congress hasn't made them citizens. We will, but the Constitution must be amended. Until it is, the freedmen are not American citizens. They are in limbo. Since the system of placage no longer exists, the contract your husband made to care for Dori's children is invalid. He made a contract regarding a slave and she is no longer a slave, and her sons are not yet citizens who can hold property. If you contest his will in court, you will likely win."

Dana wiped her eyes and raised her face enough he saw her flushed cheeks. "I had some choice about marrying him; she did not. If she wants this place, with the shutters falling off and the roof falling in, she can have it. I never want to see it again - this house or the one in Savannah."

"I fixed the shutter."

"It is not your shutter, house, or plantation, Mr. Mulder." 

"Yes, I know." He picked at a mended place on the sleeve of his shirt. 

She raised her head higher, staring at the sun setting between the cracks in the barn wall. "I tried," she said, and stopped to sniff. "I tried to please my parents and to be a good wife. I thought I understood what men wanted in marriage. I did whatever he asked." 

"Some men want any woman they aren't supposed to have," he said before he thought. 

"But you are you not one of those men?"

"Na- no I am not, I suppose," he said. "I have been tempted, but... No. It was not worth what it would have cost me. Melissa would never have known, but I would have. Sometime Sam senses things. To have to face Samuel, with him knowing I had betrayed his mother... To have to live with myself? I would not risk hurting so many people solely for my own pleasure."

He clamped his mouth closed, promising himself it would stay closed until he thought of something proper to say. Eventually, he arrived at the obvious. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I'm sorry about your husband. What an awful way to find out."

"It is a relief to have an answer, at least. I know I should not feel that way, but I do. I feel relieved to at least know he is dead. The hardest part was the not knowing, the wondering."

"Yes," he said more to himself than to her. 

"I think I have known for some time he was not coming back. I wanted to do the right thing, to wait, but there comes a time to stop waiting and go on with life. Which you advised me some months ago."

"Yes," he repeated. He wrapped his arms around his knees in imitation of her posture. She tilted her head to the side and he thought she might lay it against her shoulder, but she didn't. Through the cracks of the barn wall, the sun crept lower, painting the heavens with its last dying traces of scarlet and amethyst. 

"I am going home, Ma'am. This time, I am not going to return. I cannot hide in the swamps forever." He hesitated, watching the sun teasing them through the weathered gray boards. "I have a house, a business. My mother is alive. Life will go on, but differently."

"I will miss you," she said without looking at him.

"I will miss you as well. Very much." 

"Very much?"

"Very much. You are my friend. And Ma'am-" He inhaled, didn't think, and said it all in one breath. "Mrs. Waterston, despite what I have said, I do think I would be happy if you were my wife."

Turning her head, she stared at him. Mulder re-wrapped his arms around his knees and continued staring purposely at the hints of amber sunset flickering in from outside. 

He cleared his throat. Damn dusty old barn. 

Dana continued to gape, and the lack of romance in the air made Cupid shake his head in disgust and throw up his hands.

After epoch-like seconds, Mulder said, "I shouldn't have asked you so abruptly, and I shouldn't ask you to decide so quickly. I worry. You and Emily are alone. The world is not a nice place, Ma'am. I have a big house in DC with no one to live in it but me, and I do not want to be alone. There is a housekeeper, a cook, a half-dozen servants. You and your daughter would never want for anything. It is nice, and I promise I am not as odd or morose as I seem."

"Do you love me?"

He considered, trying to find the right way to say it. "I like you. I like being with you and talking with you. I care for your daughter; she fills a void inside me. You are a lovely woman. I care for you and I want you as my wife, but want and love: for men they are not the same."

"I would settle for being wanted." 

"Are you saying yes?"

"I think I am," she answered unsteadily. He hadn't managed to sweep her off her feet, but he had confused her into matrimony. 

He nodded as though they agreed on a price of a horse. "Good. Well... Fine. We can be married tomorrow in Savannah before we leave for Washington." 

"All right," she agreed, looking unfocused. "Mr. Mulder..."

"Yes?"

"What is your first name?"

"Fox. Fox William Mulder. I am Bill Mulder's son."

"Oh."

After graduating at the top of his class from West Point, Senator Mulder served in Congress for decades, as had Jack Kavanaugh: Sarah and Melissa's father. The majority of the literate population of the United States knew who Bill Mulder's boy was, but Dana must not.

"Do you want me to call you 'Fox'?"

"No." Sarah, Melly, and his parents had called him 'Fox.' "My friends call me Mulder. You are my friend."

"All right.” After a bit, she drew a deep breath and said, “I should check on the baby."

"Yes, you should."

He stood. He offered his hand to help her up and cautioned her to watch her head, although she stood six inches below any of the crossbeams. She kept hold of his hand as they made their way across the loft. He felt her brush her thumb against his palm. 

"If I had known you wanted to marry me, I would have been nicer to you," she said as he helped her down the first few steps of the ladder. "I can be more biddable."

"I doubt it, but you are welcome to try. In fact, please try," he answered sarcastically. "I will see you in the morning. I want to leave early."

"I will be ready." She looked up at him for a second, and climbed down the ladder to the floor. 

Mulder waited until she closed the barn door and was walking to the house before he wiped his sweaty palm on his backside.

He felt strangely calm.

He'd get up early and bathe and put on clean clothes. It would be nice if he had a suit instead of his uniform. He should send a telegram from Savannah to let Poppy, the housekeeper, know he was coming home and bringing a woman and a baby. A wife. He was bringing a wife and a stepdaughter. They could stay at a hotel in Savannah tomorrow night, and he would book passage on a ship bound for DC. He did not want the baby on a dirty, noisy train, and Dana needed more rest than she was getting.

Mulder laughed - realizing he planned a honeymoon with an eye toward the bride getting some sleep - and felt his face get warm. 

The memory of Dana asleep this morning flashed in his mind. The curves and shadows of her body beneath the thin chemise. Her silhouette in the darkness. The sound of the baby’s mouth against her breast. She was a lovely woman. His hand drifted to his cock and his mind drifted to how perspiration collected at the base of her throat and trickled down, disappearing between her breasts. The pretty pink bow at the top of her pretty mouth. He wondered what she had done to try to please Dr. Waterston. 

Mulder exhaled, removed his hand, and pushed those coarse thoughts from his mind. He asked her to be his wife, not his whore.

Without bothering to undress, Mulder lay back again. He folded his arms behind his head and crossed his ankles: a favorite position for contemplation. He stared up at the rafters, knowing he would never get to sleep. For the first time in months, perhaps years, he felt eager for morning to come.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus II

 

Paracelsus III

*~*~*~*

My Dearest Melly,

I almost wrote 'my dear wife.' It flowed automatically from my pencil to the page; I barely remember a time you were not my wife. 

My life has been full and your presence colors so much of it. I think of you as pink, Melly: the palest, most delicate shade of pink. You are the touch of fine lace on a hem and the tip of a rosebud as it unfurls. My mother I think of as soft yellow, the color of morning sun rays and sweet lemonade. My father was royal blue, a solid, proper color, and appropriate for any occasion. Samuel is red, like the human heart and the flag the matador waves at the bull. He is the color of passion and life and warm strawberry syrup. This woman, Dana, I don't yet know what color she is. Perhaps she is none, a clean slate. She is a chance to try again. 

I know she is hurting. I see pain scour her like sand against porcelain. I do not think this is real for her. She is simply functioning, finding comfort in the mundane until reality catches up with her. You found comfort having me close to you, as though I could protect you from the nightmares and the monsters in the shadows. I wonder if she feels the same tonight.

I wonder if I should tell her the last woman I kissed besides you was your sister, and I was fifteen. I have not told her about Sarah, though I should before we reach DC and someone else does. There are so many secrets I should tell her, but I do not, and I am not sure why I do not. I lock them inside me in the most private place in my heart where I know they will be safe and I do not give the key to anyone. 

When we left her home, she gave me one bag to put take to the buggy, and it is mostly things for the baby; I checked inside it. I am accustomed to your wardrobe, and I thought how sad she could fit everything precious to her into one bag and a makeshift-cradle. And I looked at my battered knapsack.

She sleeps like you do, Melly. She closes her eyes and is gone, oblivious to the world. I watch her sleeping and feel many things, but mostly comfort. I know how to do this, how to be someone's husband. I know how to be a father. I was both before most of my friends tasted their first drop of whiskey. Dana and her daughter need me, and I need to be needed, so perhaps she and I will fill in the cracks in the other's soul. 

Trust I love you. Always. You are with me for eternity, locked safely away inside my heart where no one can hurt you.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Shadow seemed perplexed at his demotion from dashing cavalry horse to lowly carriage nag, and kept turning his ears backward, listening to see if the joke was on him. He and Dr. Waterston's buggy got introduced before dawn and spent half an hour achieving a cordial, if stilted relationship before Mulder decided it was safe for Dana and Emily. The big gray animal looked back as if to plead 'What have you reduced me to?' 

"Only for a bit, boy," Mulder interrupted his story to assure him.

Shadow answered with a haughty snort and picked up his pace, eager to reach their destination before any of his horse-friends saw him. It was a nice buggy; Shadow was a snob. He remained technically the property of the federal government, and like some civil servants, felt his place was to be competent, not versatile. 

The Confederate Army requisitioned the horses in the south halfway through the war, so Mulder had found a collection of forgotten buggies in the carriage house. The slaves took some of the smaller wagons, but under a layer of dust were beautiful two- and four horse-carriages, remnants of when the stables held twenty horses, with four matching bay mares for church on Sunday and a pair of black geldings for funerals. 

"That was my husband's favorite as well," Dana said of the first light gig Mulder hitched Shadow to, and so it one got replaced with a black, two-seated open carriage with a canvas roof to protect them from the sun. He and Emily conversed philosophically in the front seat, and Dana was sound asleep in the back, a jumble of dull black silk and white petticoats across the velvet upholstery.

Comfortable Shadow wasn't going to bolt or swerve, Mulder switched the reins to one hand and offered the baby his finger to grip while he searched for the right word. He could say 'regal,' but it didn't quite fit the tone and little touches were important. As he drove past, he looked at the crumbling chimneys marking where a plantation house had stood, across the broad lawn and down the hundred year-old rows of gnarled oak trees lining the driveway.

"Palatial," Mulder told Emily, who blinked at him sleepily. He thought a moment, pooling his editorial resources. "The palatial stone walls rise from the scorched earth, the broken-out windows dark, distant, distrustful eyes."

Deep in a towel-lined basket on the seat beside him, Emily yawned. The buggy swayed on its springs as the wheels rolled over the muddy road to the river, lulling her to sleep.

"I'm not going to finish if you're so critical of my consonance," he said softly. "Anyway, the Federal Army swept through the countryside, an unflinching blue force leveling anything in its path. It's called 'total war,' Emmy, and in the end, it looks like this. We won, but we ripped families apart and tore our nation in two to do it. I heard one of my men say, 'I love my country, but if this war - where we burn cities and turn women, children, and old men out to starve in order to win - ever ends, I swear to God I will never love another.' But we did win, and we marched through Washington as conquering heroes while ladies cheered and threw flowers. After the parade, here we are. We have crippled the south and hold it tightly by the throat. We are too angry to rebuild it and too proud to let it crawl away and lick its wounds, so we grind it under our boot heels when there is nothing left to grind. More than a million freed slaves are expected to make their way, most unable to read or write. Some go north to find the north is no more hospitable to Negroes than the south. Some go back to the plantations to find nothing but this-" he nodded across the fields to the burnt mansion. "-for miles. Some go to the cities, where the vultures are circling, waiting to pick the Confederate carcass."

Mulder filed the last phrase away for later use. 

"We have so many widows there is a shortage of black crepe for mourning dresses. In our cemeteries lay two hundred and fifty thousand 'glorious dead', though I doubt a corpse cares if he is buried in blue or gray. The soldiers who survived, the heroes: the worst of our scars do not show and, I fear, will never fully heal. We fought for ideals and we ended up ankle-deep in our own blood and rhetoric, Emmy. After so much war, people forget what they are fighting for, and once it is over, whether they have won are lost, only remember they are tired. Tired, hungry people, colored or white, are easy prey. We have won the battles, but I think this country will spend the next hundred years finishing this war."

Emily yawned again, settling firmly into her morning nap.

"Daddy's opinions," he added as she closed her eyes, "are not popular, but Daddy owns a newspaper, so he can print what he wants."

In back seat of the buggy, he heard Dana shift. Mulder exhaled, blowing the dust off his husband role and putting his inner self away like summer clothes packed between layers of tissue in a trunk in the attic.

"I have her, Dana," he told her from front seat. "Are you thirsty?"

He heard her pat the empty space on the floor of the buggy in front of her, pat again, and sit upright quickly.

"I have her." Mulder looked back over his shoulder. "She's here with me." 

The carriage tilted and her silk dress rustled as she moved. Blinking sleepily, Dana leaned over the front seat to check on the baby. She stared at the road as Shadow clipped along. "I did not mean to fall asleep. Where are we, Mr. Mulder?"

"Mulder," he corrected again. "The first dock is not far from here. We will be in Savannah by evening. Sit back before you fall."

Ignoring him, she rubbed her cheek and glanced at the sunlight blinking through the trees. Mulder got up to meet the sunrise, but Dana and the hoot owl would be compatible roommates; his definition of leaving early was two hours earlier than hers. 

"Not long," he answered before she asked how long she was asleep. "Lie back down if you want."

"What am I doing in the back seat?"

"Snoring and drooling on the upholstery," he teased. "Well, a little and in a feminine manner. You fell asleep against my shoulder. I put you back there so you would be comfortable. Are you thirsty?"

He reached into the knapsack at his feet and handed his canteen back over the seat, accidentally, blindly bumping his forearm against her breasts. 

"Sorry," they said at the same time.

He listened to the carriage wheels roll along for several uncomfortable minutes. 

"The baby will need to eat soon," he informed her, as though he would know better than she. 

"Not yet," she answered.

"No, not yet, but soon. She is asleep."

He realized touching her casually was acceptable and even expected. He'd held her hand and stroked her face, once leaning over and kissing her cheek, but each move got rehearsed in his mind beforehand. 

"Which type of husband are you?" Dana asked after a long silence.

"Which type of husband am I?" He watched the road. "You make me sound like something you'd buy at the market. Do you mean 'what kind of husband' am I?"

"Yes. That is what I mean."

"You know me, Dana."

"No, I do not. You live far inside yourself, Mr. Mulder. I think you could walk for miles and not meet another person inside your thoughts. No, I do not know you."

He stared at the horse's haunches, trying to formulate an acceptable answer - some way to convey her faith in him wasn't misguided. 

She was loyal to Dr. Waterston, to discover his affections were duplicitous, to say the least. Most wives would be relieved to have their husbands' physical needs directed elsewhere. Out of pride, if nothing else, Mulder doubted Dana was one. Aside from their conversation in the barn the previous night, she refused to discuss it. She'd been “fine, Mr. Mulder” several times since breakfast.

"You know me as well as anyone alive. Not which shirt is my favorite and how I like my tea, but those are details.” He tried to imagine what might be important. “I have a temper – more so now than before the war, and I startle more easily. I am inclined to snap and brood, but I’ve never struck a woman or child. ‘More bark than bite’ is the American idiom. I am headstrong. I tend to want my way and want it now. I have been known to confuse opportunism with recklessness. I pay for a pew at my parents’ church I rarely occupy, but I do not think of myself as ungodly. I do curse. I seldom drink, and I curl up and go to sleep if I do. I come home at night. Often I come home for lunch, too, but if I do not, my office is a few blocks away; send a servant if you need me. I like children, obviously." He nodded to Emily in the basket beside him. "Did I answer your question?"

"No, you answered everything but my question."

"Bidd-a-ble," he reminded her. 

"I am trying," she said irritably. "I do not mean to be difficult. I want to know what you want from me, and you will not tell me." 

Sighing, he tightened the reins. He stopped Shadow, set the brake, and turned back to look at her. "I think you have a case of wedding jitters. Come sit up front." He climbed down and offered his hands to help her. "I will tell you all about Washington. It's a nice place, except for the open sewage canal, Murder Bay, crooked politicians, and the pickpockets."

"What is jitters?" She scooted to the left side of the seat. "Like vapors? No, I do not have jitters."

He grinned, and reached to help her down. With his hands around her waist, he reminded her, "The wheels are muddy. Mind your skirt, Miss Difficult."

There wasn't much space between the high carriage and the muddy ditch alongside the road, so he stood close, and her body slid down the front of his as he lowered her to the ground. It was another accident, but one making his breath catch in his throat.

Instead of flinching, blushing, or jerking away, she stood still. Her hands remained on his shoulders as she stared up at him. 

In the depths of his mind, he remembered kissing this woman passionately, devouring her mouth as he tangled his fingers in her long hair. He smelled her skin and felt the warmth of her body and the silkiness of her hair. In the vision, he gathered up her white chemise and jerked it over her head. He pushed her back onto a mattress, unapologetic about what he wanted. As he stripped off his clothing, she opened her legs shamelessly and watched him, impatient. He saw himself nude, with yellow candlelight flickering over his bare skin as he knelt in front of her on the bed, letting her wait a few more seconds. She wanted him inside her: hard, fast, forceful; he saw the lust in her eyes. She wanted him to revel in her body, to lose control - to fuck her, to use the vulgar term. And not for his own pleasure. To make her lose control until they were both spent and sated.

He blinked, and the memory vanished.

Mulder licked his lips. 

"These," he answered hoarsely and put his hand over her heart, "are jitters."

For an instant, he believed he clarified the English language for her. His hand resting at the top of her breast was coincidence. He looked down at his hand, wondering how it got there. Queen Victoria would be appalled.

"Are they?" She whispered as if anyone could hear. 

"Yes," he answered automatically. His body hummed. She felt electric, and his fingertips tingled like he touched a telegraph wire. Dana wore what must have been her Sunday-best, pre-war, pre-baby black dress, and he suspected her corset was laced tightly to get it to fit. With no way to take a deep breath, her chest rose and fell rapidly under his palm. 

"Is this what you're asking? What kind of husband am I? What kind of man I am with a woman?"

Her head nodded. He covered her lips with his, tilting her face upward. He intended a chaste kiss, but he closed his eyes and the ruined world receded except for the feel of silky fabric, the scent of her skin, and the taste of her mouth.

When they parted, he whispered "Is this what you wanted to know?" with his face close to hers. “What I am like as a lover?”

"Yes," she mumbled, leaning heavy against him. 

"Have I answered your question?” he asked, brushing his mouth against hers as he spoke. "Or do you require further explanation?”

To Mulder, they stood still and the planet pivoted around them, a brilliant swirl of greens and blues. Sunlight and shadow. Closing his eyes, he urged her lips apart, needing to be inside her. He slid his fingers down, weighing and exploring her breast. She gasped as he ran his thumb over her nipple, and he felt her hands tighten on his shoulders.

“I told you I wanted you,” he reminded her in a low, gravelly voice he barely recognized as his. “Yes, I am eager to discover what lies beneath this tightly-laced exterior. No, I do not enjoy hurting or humbling women. As your husband, I will be with you as politely or passionately as you require.”

Her head nodded.

“I am skilled at politeness, Dana. Politeness is gentle. It brings babies and sleep. Politeness is...” He hunted for the right word. “Satisfactory. Passion is a different, dangerous animal. As my wife, do you have a preference?” 

"I do not know." She gasped as he found her nipple again with his thumb, passing over it in long, luxurious strokes.

"I think you do," he whispered into her ear. "I think you wanted me in your bed yesterday, and even before. Even before you knew your husband was dead.” He slid his other hand down her back and over her bottom, cupping it and pulling her pelvis against him. She murmured in Gaelic, but didn't try to pull away, although she must have felt him hard against her abdomen. Against his neck, her breath came in short little pants, like sparks against his skin. "Didn’t you?" he asked huskily. “You cannot want another baby so soon, and you sleep far better than I do, so it was not politeness you considered inviting into your bed.”

The carriage rolled an inch as Shadow shifted his feet, bringing reality and morality back like an explosion of light. 

Mulder recoiled as if he'd tried to embrace fire. Staring down at Dana's swollen lips, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, trying to figure out what happened. It wasn't real. He wasn't doing this. Another minute and he'd have her on the wet grass in the field like they were the rutting animals Darwin claimed.

She opened her eyes, seeming dazed as she looked up at him. He hoped she'd faint in mortification and forget what happened, but Dana didn't seem the fainting type. He let her go and braced himself to be slapped. 

She stood there, trying to catch her breath. 

Mulder took another step back. He avoided eye contact. He couldn't be more horrified if he was caught in an alley with a prostitute with his trousers around his ankles. By his mother. And all his mother's socialite friends.

"My God, Dana, I am sorry," he said earnestly, not sure what to do with his hands except not put them on her again. "You aren't yet my wife; I shouldn't have touched you. I should never have said those things to you. Not ever. I don't know what I was thinking. I do not."

She nodded and stared at the ground. She smoothed her already-smooth hair. 

"Dana?"

"I am fine." She looked up, but lowered her gaze again. She cleared her throat and moved away. “Whatever you want, Mr. Mulder,” she said automatically. 

She didn't look fine. Her face was flushed and her eyes had shone like the surface of a lake in the moonlight. She looked as drunkenly wanton and dangerous as he felt.

He stared at her as she studied the muddy road. He exhaled forcefully. He could belabor his apology, but it was easier to save both of them the embarrassment.

"Up you go," he instructed primly as though nothing had happened. She put her hands on his shoulders again, letting him lift her onto the front seat. She slid the baby to the corner and scooted over, making room for him beside her. 

He climbed up after her, picked up the leather reins, released the brake, and told Shadow to walk on. The buggy lurched, and rocked from side to side as the horse trotted. As they turned a bend on the road, he looked back, wondering about the rash, shameless man who had briefly taken control of his body. He couldn't imagine what Dana must think of him. 

"I met you here," he commented, needing to say something. "On this road. Before Emily came."

"Yes." She stared at the cypress trees and kept her hands folded on her lap.

"Had I met you before?" he asked curiously. "In New York? You said your family settled there."

"No. I do not recall meeting you," she said politely.

"I travel to New York on business. I thought..." He knew he talked nonsense. Her family arrived in America a year before she met and married Dr. Waterston and moved to Savannah. Two years after, Waterston sent her to his plantation in the swamp for safekeeping, where she seldom saw a soul except the servants. "When I kissed you, you seemed familiar to me - as though I had known you."

"You do know me, Mr. Mulder."

"Of course," he agreed, dropping the subject. 

She agreed to be your wife, his rational self argued silently. She has been married before; she knows what marriage means. He turned his heart over, examining it for signs of guilt, but instead found fear. He was not raised to treat women disrespectfully, and it frightened him it came so naturally. 

She had not objected. It bothered him she had not objected. However, why bother to object? Mulder was honest about why he wanted to marry her. Aside from concern for her and Emily, he wanted a home, a family, and her in his bed. To know her in the Biblical sense. It was a common reason to take a wife, but didn't seem so romantic in the prudent light of day.

A generation of marriageable men lay dead, leaving a generation of well-bred ladies brought up exclusively to marry and make homes but lacking husbands to do that with. Some widows took comfort in their black veils and destitution, but others married far beneath their social rank out of desperation. Any single man found himself knee-deep in adoring young women, most with small children, no money, and no place to go. It was flattering if one didn't think too hard. Many women chose between tolerating a new husband's demands and tolerating starvation, and he wondered if Dana was making that choice.

He opened his mouth to apologize - to even lie and say he loved her – but closed his mouth without speaking.

Mulder slapped the reins against the horse's rump, ordering him to trot faster. Next, he decided the pace was too bouncy for the baby and tightened the reins, slowing them. Shadow glanced back, looking annoyed. 

As if searching for something to do, Dana picked up the sleeping baby and held her. She put the basket in the back seat.

"She looks like you," he commented, searching for a neutral topic.

"I had thought she looks like her father."

"Bald?" 

"No, not bald," she responded, sighing. 

He grinned at her, letting her know he was joking. "Well, regardless, I think she looks like you and she is beautiful. Even bald," he could not resist adding to his roundabout complement.

"You can be difficult as well, Mr. Mulder." 

Chuckling, he tugged gently at her sleeve, making physical contact again. "It's part of my charm." 

"Did you pay money for this charm?" she responded uncertainly. 

At first he thought she misunderstood, but realized he was the one being teased. “Bidd-a-ble,” he mouthed at her, and smiled. She laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes again.

*~*~*~*

Mulder didn't consider himself a rugged, kill-it, skin-it, and eat-it-bloody-and-raw frontiersman, but he wasn't a limp-wristed city boy who sat around buffing his nails all day, either. He could spend the night on the dirt floor of the nasty clapboard shack, huddled near the fire and playing poker with marked cards. He could take his turn as they passed around the bottle of cheap rum, laughing and slapping each other in the back as they choked it down. He even had some off-color jokes he was saving to tell Frohike, and those were sure to make him some friends among the rough men at the dock. It could turn out to be a pleasant night.

The problem was what to do with his soon-to-be wife and stepdaughter.

Mulder looked back at the buggy. Dana jiggled the wailing baby against her shoulder and watching him expectantly. She'd suggested waiting for a river boat at the dock nearest Waterston's plantation, but Mulder wanted to drive to Savannah and catch a steamer the next morning; he saw no sense in spending the night on a boat if they could spend it in a nice hotel. With his hands on his hips, he turned back to survey the churning, muddy river. They crossed the other rivers with no trouble, but all the water from the storm two nights ago ended up here. Perhaps Mulder was about to marry a woman with an opinion worth considering.

"Ferry's done washed away," some Goliath of a man wearing buckskin informed him. "Ya ain't gettin' 'cross tonight. Best try in the mornin'"

"What about a flatboat?" Mulder asked as the water lapped over the edge of the pier. "Could we rig a rope and pole across on a flatboat?" 

"Ya could try." Goliath nodded toward Emily. "How well ya reckon that woman and baby can swim?"

"You're not being helpful."

"I ain't sayin' ya cain't try it. It's a free river. That's an awful pretty young Missus ya got there. Tell ya what: you tie a rope to the dock, strip down, jump in, and swim it 'cross to the other side. After, say, ten minutes, I'll pull yer body back, no charge. Leave them breeches here, 'cause I'm thinkin' they'll fit me fine. Always did favor blue." 

Mulder gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. Dusk approached. He could sleep outdoors, but Dana and Emily couldn't. They could turn back, but even if he had lamp oil for the lamps on the buggy to see to drive at night, they hadn't passed a standing house in more than an hour. The low country was a series of swamps, inlets, and islands. If this river was cresting, the others would as well. They were trapped, and the motley river men standing outside the bunkhouse didn't look like promising roommates for a lady and a baby.

"We'll need a place to sleep. Is there anywhere else? A barn? Anything?"

"Why, there's a fine hotel up a piece. Shine yer shoes while ya sleep an' everything," Goliath answered sarcastically. "Set 'um outside the door."

Mulder gave up and walked away. Groping her like a savage this morning followed by a night in a shack with a half-dozen strange men, a bed on a dirt floor, and a colicky baby: what better way to impress a woman? 

"Ya'll can put up here," the man yelled from behind him. "Won't charge ya much. And we stink fer free."

*~*~*~* 

Melly was breathtaking. Not pleasant, not pleasing, not lovely: stand-there-and-stare-at-her breathtaking. Ethereal. Agelessly, classically  
stunning. Of the two Kavanaugh sisters, she was prettier, and Sarah, even at fifteen, had been strikingly beautiful in her own right. Melissa had been tall, with high cheekbones and thick, black hair recalling Cherokee in her ancestry. Deep brown eyes, full breasts, a tiny waist, and long, shapely legs; an artist couldn't have drawn her more flawlessly. Mulder used to run his fingertips over the broad, red slash of her mouth and down the delicate skin of her throat and marvel at the perfection. 

Dana was pretty. She was fair, with beautiful, wavy auburn hair and big blue eyes, like a china doll. She was petite, and it made a man feel masculine to stand beside her. Being Irish added a mysterious, exotic air of crumbling stone castles and fairy-people. And, if one didn't mind bright women, she could be dryly, unexpectedly funny.

Dana was quite pretty. Mulder noticed. He hadn't expected anyone else to.

It took him a while to realize the men outside the bunkhouse made excuses to talk to him to be close to Dana. Many were crewmen waiting for the next boat. Some were hunters or trappers, and a few merely had enough of civilization for a while. They were coarse, cautious, lonely, and as delighted as children at Christmas to see a pretty lady. 

Dana seemed unaware of the surreptitious attention. She had been quiet since noon - never a good sign. Mulder suspected she had begun realize how much her life changed in the last thirty-six hours, and needed time inside herself to be still. Mulder remembered how he felt after Melly's death. For weeks, he lived in a separate world of muted colors and sounds and tastes. He understood, and as much as possible, he wanted to give her time. 

"Little 'un ya got there," Goliath observed as they sat around the campfire. 

Dana sat on a bench beside Mulder, and Goliath squatted down to examine Emily, who squalled in Dana's arms. Dana had nursed her, burped her, changed her, held her, walked her, put her down, and picked her up again. Emily seemed to be crying because she felt like it. 

"I got three myself. This little one six weeks old?" Goliath guessed.

"Eight weeks," Mulder answered for Dana. He would have taken Dana elsewhere, but, unless they wanted to sit in the buggy or the stifling bunkhouse, there was nowhere else. 

"Umph," Goliath responded. He took a good look at Dana as he sat down heavily on the ground. "He ain't happy."

"She," Mulder corrected. He took the baby, who started to settle down.

"She wanted Daddy," Goliath said decisively. 

Dana kept her head down, but Mulder saw her glance at him out of the corner of her eye. 

As Mulder focused on the baby and avoided eye contact with Dana, a hush fell over the men. He looked up. Two men had stepped out of the woods: an old trapper and a teenage boy barely old enough to have a mustache. 

After surveying the group, the old man focused on Mulder and demanded, "You steal that uniform?" His gray beard fell halfway down his chest and tobacco had stained his teeth yellow. He held a Revolutionary War-era musket. 

The day got better and better.

Mulder had been in his shirtsleeves all day, but brought his uniform jacket from the buggy in case Dana got cold after the sun set. He planned to put the coat on long enough to get married, and never to wear it again for the rest of his life. "No," Mulder answered coolly. "It's mine." 

The old man stepped closer. "Says yer an officer, Yank. A Colonel."

"I was." 

"I lost an arm to the Yanks at Gettysburg," Yellow-Teeth informed him, and tilted his head toward his empty left sleeve. He fingered the Bowie knife on his hip. He took another step forward, close enough Mulder smelled whiskey on his breath. "My nephew here lost his Pa. You at Gettysburg?"

"No."

"Antietam?"

"No," Mulder repeated. Dana edged closer to him. He felt her hand on the small of his back. He had two pistols and bowie knife and the rifle and a saber – all in the buggy. 

The other men gathered in a half-circle to watch. Mulder didn't want to begin married life with a knife fight, but this fellow itched for a brawl.

"Fredericksburg? Bull Run?"

Another "No." 

The old man paused to spit. "Where the hell were ya, Colonel Yank? If you didn’t steal that uniform?" 

Goliath looked up, and Yellow-teeth and a half-dozen other men smirked.

"I was with General Grant at Shiloh," Mulder answered evenly. "Chickasaw Bluffs. Vicksburg. Stone's River. Chickamauga. I served under General Sherman in Chattanooga. Missionary Ridge. Lookout Mountain. Dalton. Kennesaw Mountain. Peachtree Creek and on to Atlanta, and Savannah and the Carolinas."

Dana tensed on the bench beside him.

"You get wounded?"

Mulder handed her the baby, and Dana focused intently on Emily. He came home with his limbs and face intact, but not unscarred. Standing up, Mulder unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a scar crossing diagonally from the left side of his chest to his abdomen. Later in the war, a minie ball grazed his shoulder, but the wound was a scratch compared to the one from Tennessee. The bayonet slash had been an “another inch either way and it would have killed you, son” wound, and the scar had a sobering effect on the river men. 

"Chattanooga," Mulder told the old man, who leaned forward to examine the long, raised, jagged line, tracing his dirty fingernail over it. "My father died during the siege of Richmond. One of my uncles was killed at the first battle of Bull Run. My only son went missing last fall. The fighting's over. Even if it wasn't, I've seen enough blood and death for one lifetime. So has every other soldier, regardless of which side he was on."

"Amen," Yellow-teeth decided, and settled down. He produced and offered a jug of some mysterious liquid. “Drink?”

Mulder buttoned his shirt, sat down, and ran his hand over Dana's back. She exhaled. 

The old man offered his bottle again.

Since it seemed unwise to refuse, Mulder reached for the jug. As he put the bottle to his lips, several men dispersed into the woods, disappointed, but others grinned expectantly. He swallowed against his better judgment, and gasped. "My God. What the hell is it?"

"Mother's milk." The old man grinned as Goliath reached for the bottle. "No offense to the lady: my language at all."

"None taken," Dana answered.

It was the first time she'd spoken, and the men looked at her again. After two months, Mulder didn't notice her accent. It seemed as natural for her to speak with a faint Gaelic accent as it was for Melly and Sarah to speak with a hint of the Tennessee Smokey Mountains behind her words. 

Mulder felt the home-brewed alcohol burning its way down to his stomach.

A quiet, red-haired man sitting on a stump near the bunkhouse addressed Dana, saying what sounded to Mulder like, "Gobledy-gobledy-guke?"

"Gobledy-gook," Dana responded, and shifted the baby to one arm. 

"Gobledy-gook-guke-gobledy-guke?" the Irishman asked. He came over and plopped down on the ground beside the bench where Mulder and Dana sat, as if they were old acquaintances.

As their conversation continued, Mulder cleared his throat, trying to be subtle. He shifted his feet. He told Dana he wanted a drink. Dana got up and, still carrying the baby, brought Mulder a dipper of water, and sat back down without ever pausing her captivating discussion with the young, rather handsome Irishman. They could be discussing running away together for all Mulder knew. He couldn't remember Dana ever being so interested in anything he said. 

"Dana," Mulder said firmly.

She glanced at Mulder as though she'd forgotten he existed. "I am sorry; I did not mean to be rude. This man was in one of the Irish brigades from New York. He asked about his brother, and I asked if he knew my father and brothers." She patted Emily a few times.

"Did he?"

"No, I-" She paused as the Irishman said something, and produced a wrinkled, yellowed envelope from his pocket. "He wants to know if you can read. He paid a, a-" The Irishman repeated a word. Dana shook her head and blushed. "A mistress. No, not a mistress, but like a mistress for money. He paid this kind of woman in Savannah write a letter to his brother's commanding officer for him, and this is the response. It is in English. He would like for you to read it, and for me to tell him what happened to his brother."

Mulder took the letter. The edges were brown from being carried around for so long. In theory, the Army posted lists of the dead, wounded, missing, and  
captured, and notified families of changes in their loved one's status. In practice, one mangled body might be mistaken for another. A deserter was thought to be missing in action. A man deserted under one name, re-enlisted, and died under another. A soldier directly in front of a cannon blast vaporized. In practice, many men remained 'missing' months after the war ended, and would remain so for the next fifty years. 

Mulder skimmed the paper and summarized. "His brother was captured and sent to Andersonville. It was a Confederate prison camp in Georgia where captured Federals - Yankees," he clarified, "Were housed. After that, the commanding officer does not know. He offers condolences.”

While Dana translated, Mulder reread the letter. "The commander suggests writing to a nurse named Miss Clara Barton.” He turned the letter to show the Irishman where to find the name on the paper. “She went to Andersonville after the war to organize the records and graves of the dead. If there's any record of his brother, the commander believes she might know of it."

Again, Dana repeated that. 

“Tell him Federal soldiers took Andersonville in May and freed the remaining prisoners,” Mulder said. “If he has not received word from his brother, he is unlikely to. It's not in the letter, Dana, but tell him the government tried Henry Wirz, the man who ran Andersonville, and sentenced him to hang for conspiracy and murder. The newspapers say more than thirteen-thousand of the soldiers sent to the camp died. About one out of three men. Most starved to death or died of disease."

Dana looked at Mulder, wide-eyed. After a pause, she looked at the Irishman and softly repeated what Mulder had told her.

The other men around the campfire stared into the flames. The Irishman nodded curtly, said something to Dana, repeated the same words to Mulder, and stood and disappeared into the woods.

"He said to tell you 'Thank you.'" Dana turned to look at Mulder. “How could the government let soldiers starve to death in a military prison?”

“The world is not a nice place,” Mulder reminded her softly. “The South could not feed their own soldiers, let alone prisoners.”

“How horrible.”

Since Mulder could not argue, he took her hand. After a moment, he brought his hand to his lips, kissed it, and slid off the bench to sit on the ground in front of her. Mulder stretched his boots toward the fire. The bottle came around again. He took a turn and passed it on. Someone thought it would be a good joke to offer the moonshine to Dana, but glanced at Mulder's face and changed his mind.

As it grew dark, the men continued to drink and the stories started, each more outlandish than the last. Mulder’s head began to feel heavy. He leaned it against Dana's skirt, forgetting about the Irishman as she ran her fingers through his hair. "How much do I have to drink not to be a Nancy-boy?" he whispered to her as everyone else laughed uproariously at a vulgar joke he hoped she didn’t understand.

"I think that might be enough," Dana answered. Her manner appeared casual, but her eyes watchful. 

"I think you’re right. I'll fix you and Emily a place to sleep," he said nonchalantly. He got up and waved away another swallow from the bottle. "Come with me. I don't want you out here alone." 

No one noticed their absence; the hour was late and the voices loud around the campfire. 

Dana waited inside the doorway of the bunkhouse while Mulder hung the canvas fabric of his Army tent from the ceiling like a curtain, cordoning off one corner of the cabin and creating privacy for her. His bedroll wasn't luxurious, but it was warm and would keep her off the dirt floor. She could cover up with his uniform jacket, too. From the carriage, Mulder fetched a second blanket and the basket Emily slept in earlier. He brought his rifle and pistols back to the bunkhouse with him, as well. 

"If you must go outside during the night, wake me. I'll go with you," he instructed. "What I mean is, don't go alone. I don't think any of these men mean you harm, but they’re drinking. With any luck, they'll pass out around the campfire and we can be gone before they wake up in the morning."

Dana nodded. She laid Emily in the basket and looked around. 

Mulder raised the candle, showing her their sparse surroundings. The bunkhouse had four cots on the opposite wall, one grimy window with a pane missing, and not much else.

"Dana, I am sorry. This is not where I planned to spend the night."

"I know," she answered softly. "Do I, do I undress?"

"Take the baby and go behind the curtain. I will wait here.” 

Mulder waited on the other side of the makeshift canvas curtain, near the door. He blew out the candle so the only light came from the moon glowing through the small window. He heard rustling as Dana unfastened her dress. There was a deep, relieved inhalation as the corset came off, and more rustling for petticoats and shoes.

"All right." She peeked around the canvas curtain in her old chemise.

Mulder had the sudden, warm realization she did not expect to sleep alone. He swallowed and joined her behind the curtain. "Do you need to feed the baby?"

"She is asleep," Dana reminded him. She’d set the basket nearby, in the corner of the bunkhouse.

"All right." He cleared his throat and nodded to his bedroll. "Lie down. I'll be right here. To get to you, those men must get past me, which won't happen. Again, I don't think anyone will cause trouble, but if you get scared, wake me. I'm a light sleeper." He paused. “I have nightmares, sometimes. You’re welcome to wake me from those, as well.”

Dana’s chemise rustled against the wool blanket as she lay down. She rolled away and reached to check the baby, and then back toward Mulder again. Once she was still, he unrolled his own blanket. The rifle, he put between Dana and the bunkhouse wall, and the pistols, beside him and beneath his uniform jacket. Mulder lay down, facing away from her, cushioning his head with his forearm. He wore his shirt and uniform trousers and boots. The canvas curtain hung between their feet and the cabin door. As promised, he lay parallel to Dana, a few feet away.

"Are you all right?" he asked into the darkness. “Do you want my jacket?”

He remembered he had not kissed Dana goodnight. That seemed impolite, but to rectify it laying down might frighten her. He remained on his own blanket.

"I am not sleepy, Mr. Mulder," her voice answered. "I do not think I can sleep."

"I know. It is stuffy and smelly in here, but you cannot be outside. Close your eyes and rest, even if you don't sleep."

She exhaled, shifted, and several minutes of silence passed. Dana had napped during the day, but Mulder had not. The homebrewed alcohol made his arms and legs heavy and relaxed. He was dozing when she asked, "Does it snow in Washington, D. C.?"

She pronounced the city as three separate sentences. Washington. Dee. Cee.

"Yes, it snows," he mumbled.

"It does not snow in Savannah. I am not sure what to expect."

"It snows, sometimes." He opened his eyes and thought a moment. "Right now, in Washington, the leaves are changing colors. The trees are orange and scarlet and yellow and even lilac. Winter will come soon, but now DC is beautiful. The wind blows the leaves across the yard and into heaps beside the road. When it rains, you hear the raindrops landing on them, sounding fat and lazy. Part of the house has a tin roof, and you can lie in bed and listen to the rain pattering like little bells chiming, and running down and dripping off the eaves."

"It sounds nice."

"It is nice," he assured her. "I had forgotten how nice my life was. The closets have their skeletons, but I keep them locked. I get up, put on my suit, go to work, come home, enjoy my family, and sleep in a soft, warm bed. It is nice. That's what I meant to tell you this morning. I did not intend to be so vulgar."

"What is your work?"

"Oh," he said. He hadn't told her. "I have investments, but also I own a newspaper."

"Oh," she echoed. He heard her jump as a glass bottle broke outside and the campfire exploded. Someone must have tossed alcohol into it. A dozen male voices laughed drunkenly, like wild dogs howling at the moon.

"They are letting off steam," he promised. "Don't pay them any mind. They've forgotten we're even here."

She said nothing for so long he started to worry. 

"Are you all right?" He rolled over and reached out, searching for her in the blackness. Finding her shoulder, he asked, "Dana, are you all right?"

As soon as he touched her, she was still – not flinching, but not relaxing, either. "I am fine," she answered, sounding like she held her breath. 

"No, you aren't." He stroked her shoulder. "Relax," he urged. "It's all right. Those men aren't going to hurt you. I'm not going to hurt you."

Her head nodded tensely. Dana’s eyes glistened in the moonlight, but she looked at his chest rather than face.

"We're not married." Mulder removed his hand from her shoulder. 

"We are to be married. I was not sure if it mattered to you," she answered, still not looking at him.

"It does. The Irishman earlier, the word you could not translate? ‘Prostitute,’” he told her. “The English word is 'prostitute.' ‘Whore,’ to be crude. That is not what you are. Not here, Dana. Not like this," he promised. "Go to sleep."

She nodded again.

He closed his eyes, but opened them as a thought struck him. He told Dana the truth during the embarrassing wave of lust that overcame him this afternoon: he could not imagine she wanted another baby so soon. Nor did he expect she enjoyed the act of coitus itself. Perhaps, though, tonight she might want to get lost in the closeness leading up to the act. 

“Dana,” he said hesitantly, struggling to find a polite way to ask. He had no vocabulary for discussing sex with a woman. “You presumed what I wanted tonight, but perhaps I presumed as well. I know the ache and emptiness of losing someone, but I had lost my wife. I was alone.” He hoped he spoke out of kindness, not intoxication. “You and I will be married by this time tomorrow. If there is anything I can do tonight to ease your pain, I will not think badly of you.”

Her hand found his. Her fingers felt small and cool. “You have been drinking.” She said it as an observation, not a refusal or accusation. 

“I am not so drunk I would forget myself with a woman. Of my own accord, I would go to sleep.”

She said softly, “You are the first man who has offered to love me out of charity.”

“No man offers such a thing entirely selflessly, but – yes,” he admitted. “I am tired and sore and tipsy. Our lavish accommodations give me pause. That you just had a baby gives me pause. But I will make love to you if you wish, however you wish.” He added with courage bolstered by alcohol, “And stop or not – as you wish.”

Her fingers stroked his. Sounding lost, Dana said, “I do not know. I am afraid and empty. A few minutes with a prostitute does not seem to ease emptiness for men. I cannot imagine a different outcome for me if I ask you to act against your better judgment.” 

“What do you want?” he asked quietly.

“I want to be warm inside."

Mulder didn't ask how Dana could be cold on an eighty degree day with a campfire blazing outside. He understood what it was to be cold. Not outside, but inside. To shiver like he'd eaten too much ice cream. It was a different kind of cold. 

Every phrase he constructed in his mind was a euphemism for lovemaking. He arrived at the ungainly, “If I lie down beside you – and sleep there, and do not touch you as a husband would – would you want that? My- Melissa liked me close, if she was upset. It feels less like you are the only soul in the world.”

“Yes,” Dana responded, barely audible.

He got up, moved his blanket, and lay down behind her. He put his hand on her shoulder again but otherwise did not touch her. To his surprise, Dana moved back against him and pulled his arm tight around her. She exhaled shakily, as if struggling not to cry.

Mulder raised his head to kiss her cheek. “You are not alone. I'll keep you warm and safe,” he promised. “Go to sleep."

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus III

 

Begin: Paracelsus IV

*~*~*~*

Dear Melly,

I like to believe in true love - each soul has one perfect counterpoint - because I like to believe in beautiful ideas. The world needs more of them. I like to believe in destiny, and each life has a purpose. After you died, I was surprised - and angry - the grass dared continue to grow and the clouds to move across the sky. Yet they do. The world continues to turn, so I trust Fate has a reason as it nudges me through a door or around the bend of a country road.

She is more. That is a complete sentence, and as clear as I can manage. She is more.

I do not compare her to you because there is no comparison. No one will take your place or be to me what you were. I struggle not to think 'If she was Melly, she would...' because it is unfair to Dana. No woman compares favorably to a ghost.

That is her name, in case I hadn't told you before: Dana Katherine Mulder.

She is more than I expected. I do not mean more beautiful or attentive, though men turn to stare at her as they did you. I could not ask Dana to be more attentive to me, and I certainly do not mean she is more obedient. Her hard head puts granite to shame, and I think a spanking might greatly improve her demeanor. She is more the way a six-horse team is more than a pair. Stronger, more intense, more of a challenge.

And I am fond of her.

If you saw this letter, you would find a thin place on the paper where I wrote and erased two-dozen words besides 'am fond of,' trying to find ones that fit. Women can choose hats easier than I can put into words what I feel for Dana. I think of love as the overwhelming, heart-wrenching emotion I feel for you, and I do not feel that for her. I think of Sarah, and I do not feel that for her, either. I am comfortable her, as though I have married my good friend, which I suppose I have.

If it is love, it is a lesser love, but it is still pleasant. And pleasant is several steps above being alone. 

Mulder

*~*~*~*

'Expect me home by end of month stop bringing new wife and baby stop make arrangements accordingly stop'

Fifteen words. Mulder reread them one last time, and handed the slip of paper to the clerk. The clerk began pecking away at the telegraph machine, sending electronic pulses through the miles of wire between Savannah and Washington D.C. 

It was done. Even if he or Dana wanted, it was too late to back out. Entering into the holy covenant of marriage was significantly less binding than telling his housekeeper she would have a new baby to fuss over.

A new wife, however, might get a cooler reception from Poppy.

Dana waited beside the door. If she slept at all the previous night, Mulder hadn't noticed it. It took the men around the campfire until dawn to pass out. The baby wanted to nurse every few hours; he'd pretended to be asleep so he couldn't notice that, either. 

When they reached Savannah, Dana saw what the Army - his Army - had done to the city she briefly called home, and what public reaction was to a Federal officer looking to marry a Confederate widow. General Sherman's troops wintered there, and the city looked like an elegant lady dragged through the mud: disoriented, bedraggled, and incensed, but still a lady. She still had her standards. Anyone in a blue uniform was the enemy, and anyone giving quarter to the enemy was a traitor. It didn't matter Dana was less of a southerner than Mulder; New York had been a free state, whereas Washington DC allowed slavery. Two ministers politely declined to perform the ceremony, three impolitely declined, and one suggested Mulder get out of his church before he had time to load his pistol.

Mulder began to think Dana was either the most tolerant woman on the planet, or the most stubborn.

"Think of this as a great adventure," he said, taking the baby and trying to get her to smile. "A quest."

"A quest," she echoed softly.

"Dana, are you all right?" he asked for the hundredth time. "This is so much, so quickly. Are you sure?"

She inhaled, opened her eyes wider, and forced a smile, nodding.

"Please don't,” he requested. “I hate falseness. Please don't pretend what you don't feel."

"I am sorry." 

"If you've changed your mind, tell me. If it's a matter of money - I'm in debt to you for months of room and board. You could collect and take a grand tour of Europe," he said, still trying unsuccessfully to get a genuine smile. "Above all, you are my friend, Dana. I won't have you do something you don't want to do. I'll take you anywhere and I'll make sure you and the baby are taken care of once there. Would you want to go to your mother's? After Washington, this ship goes on to New York; from there, I can put you on a boat for Ireland, if you want."

"I want to go with you, if you want me."

It was the longest sentence he'd heard from her all day. 

"I do," he responded honestly.

He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips. Her mouth moved belatedly in response. Mulder made a conscientious effort to touch her, and she seemed to make a conscientious effort to respond - though she seemed surprised, like she'd momentarily forgotten whom he was or why he was there.

The telegraph clerk cleared his throat in disapproval. The baby mewed, and Dana pulled back, tasting her lips.

The ship's whistle blew, screaming impatiently at the sky. On the other side of the window, men with broad shoulders and strong backs carried trunks and cargo up the gangplanks, feeding the ships like insects swarming a hive. Mulder put his hand on Dana's back. He carried the baby and escorted Dana out of the telegraph office and across the bustling dock.

*~*~*~*

One nice thing about being a man: there was little to spruce up. Once Mulder bathed, combed, shaved, and buttoned, he was ready. Except for the green tint beginning to creep into his face as the ship cut through the waves, he looked as presentable as he would get.

Dana stood at the dresser in their stateroom, staring at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She turned her head from side to side, watching herself.

"I look so shabby," she said unhappily, and ran her hands over her black dress. The dress was in good condition, probably from lack of wear, but at least five years out of fashion. She must have put aside one good dress at the beginning of the war, and Dana would pick basic black silk: suitable for church, mourning and, in a pinch, an evening wedding. The too-tight bodice ended in the deep V, and the skirt flared in a circle, meant to be worn with a hoop, though she didn’t wear one. The shoulders sloped into full sleeves gathered below her elbows. Instead of the elaborate, looping styles popular before the war, she had parted her hair in the middle and gathered in a simple knot at the base of her head. The overall silhouette recalled a wilting flower - which had been appropriate in 1860. "I did not realize how shabby."

"The world is shabby; we blend in," he answered. Mulder came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. "You look fine."

She frowned at her reflection. She picked up the brush and started pulling out hairpins, showing every sign of starting over. He had encountered this feminine routine; it did not ended well. Mulder should have known. If a woman asked how she looked, the proper answer was 'beautiful.’ Any further comments required tact and were sure to get him in trouble. Unfortunately, he'd opted for 'fine.’ 

"You look beautiful," he added belatedly. "Anyway, who cares how you look?"

She turned to stare at him, her lower lip sticking out a bit and her forehead creased. 

"Dana, you've been living hand-to-mouth, spent last night on the floor, in a shack, and had a baby-"

She picked up a hairbrush. "Mr. Mulder, any charm you have, you must have gotten at a discount."

He would have laughed, but his head hurt and his stomach rocked side-to-side. "I'm not making it better, am I?"

"No." She paused, dissatisfied with the woman in the mirror. "Nor am I."

"The ladies I saw on the street had their hair atop their heads." He gathered her auburn mane into a loose ponytail at her crown, trying to demonstrate. "Smooth on the sides, and some curls, with a stupid little hat on top." 

"I do not have a stupid little hat, Mr. Mulder."

Untangling his fingers, he handed her a hairpin and promised, "The next time the ship docks, I'll buy you some new dresses and a stupid little hat so you'll be the height of fashion. Until then, do the best you can."

There was a soft knock at the door of their stateroom. Mulder opened it to find the captain of the ship looking dignified with his matching white uniform and whiskers. The captain had agreed to marry them once the ship reached the open ocean.

"Thank you," Mulder told him as they shook hands in the foyer. "I appreciate you taking the time to do this. Captain, this is Mrs. Dana Waterston," he introduced as Dana appeared from the bedroom. "This is Emily," he added, gesturing to the cradle beside the sofa. "Who we're hoping will sleep through this." 

One of the maids had offered to watch Emily during the wedding, and Dana had reluctantly agreed. And requested the wedding be as brief as possible. 

Although a dozen women in steerage class likely yearned to earn a few dollars as a wet nurse, Mulder hadn't worked up to broaching the subject. He should put his foot down and insist Dana get some rest, but she liked having Emily close. To be honest, so did he.

"It's nice to see a young couple so in love," the captain answered tactfully. "I haven't married anyone in a long time, but I think I remember how the ceremony goes."

"We've done it before," Mulder offered, and earned an odd look from the captain.

"You're wearing wedding rings. Did you want to use those?"

"Oh, uh, no. No, I don't think so. I'll get new ones the next time the ship docks. Is that all right?"

Not only did he and Dana wear wedding bands, they wore them on their left hands, not their right as was customary for a widow or widower.

"It's fine." The captain's eyes looked amused at their disarray. "I'll be on deck whenever you're ready. Take your time." He closed the door, leaving them alone in the opulent rooms.

Mulder tried not to fidget, and blamed his rebellious stomach on the early stages of seasickness. "The captain's ready," he informed Dana needlessly.

Dana frowned in concentration as she tried to work her wedding ring off her finger. 

After hesitating a heartbeat, Mulder did the same. He held the heavy ring, tilting it to read the worn Latin inscription inside. Amorem meum tibi semper dabo; in English, 'I will give you my love always.' He did not think he broke his vow by marrying Dana.

He looked up. Dana rubbed the pale, indented skin on her finger. She handed the gold band to him for safekeeping. Mulder dropped both rings in his pocket without comment.

"So I'll need to buy wedding bands, dresses, and a stupid little hat at the next port," he listed nervously. "Anything else?" 

She shook her head.

"The captain's ready," he repeated, and offered her his hand. 

*~*~*~*

Mulder watched his dream from above, like an patron in a balcony taking in a play of his own life. He recognized his bay mare and his father’s high-stepping gelding; both animals had gone to the knacker years ago. Many of the boarding houses and shops they rode past had closed during the war, but in the dream their windows weren’t boarded or their signs faded. As evening rose over Washington, the lamplighters began their rounds through a prosperous, manicured city. Mulder studied every detail, feeling nostalgic for a simpler time – though he hadn’t thought simple at the time. 

"We're not lying to your mother," Mulder’s father had explained as they tied their horses to the hitching post outside the saloon. "We're just not mentioning this. We’ll tell her you stopped by my office after your lessons, and we arrived home late for dinner. We won't mention any stops in between. Do you understand, Fox?"

Mulder, with all the hero worship a teenage boy had for his father, nodded. This was a nefarious adventure into the darker side of life, and he would have given his left arm to do something nefarious with his proper father. "I won't tell her," he answered earnestly.

The uniformed doorman opened the ornate doors to a whole new world. In the dream, Mulder followed his father inside, trying not to look as out of place as he felt. He remembered to take off his hat, and tugged nervously at his vest, pulling it smooth. His hair was a lost cause, but he ran his fingers through it anyway.

Bill Mulder was well-liked, so it took them several minutes of hand shaking and waving and head nodding to reach the crowded bar. The barkeep greeted them with, "What will it be, Senator?"

"Whiskey. Two." Bill Mulder tapped the bar with his index fingers as he slid onto a padded stool. 

Mulder’s father had brought him to an elegant establishment near the Capitol,  
specializing in catering to the tastes of DC's politicians and wealthy businessmen. Mulder looked around, taking in the mirrors and the heavy chandeliers. Across the room, pretty girls wearing pantalets, short chemises, corsets, and ridiculously high-heeled slippers leaned over the railing of the balcony. The girls flirting with the men downstairs were flashily dressed in low-cut dresses or elaborate dressing gowns - some with rouge and face powder - but the ones upstairs were barely dressed at all. 

"Sorry, son," his father said in an amused tone. "I'm not quite that traditional. I'll teach you to drink, but let's put that off for another birthday.” He paused. “Besides, you have acquainted yourself with the fairer sex, whether I like it or not.”

Mulder flushed and looked away.

Bill Mulder cleared his throat. “How does it feel to be sixteen? Do you like your present?"

"It's wonderful," he responded dutifully, still watching the prostitutes upstairs. He'd walked past fast women on the street, and he knew brothels existed. Gentlemen in polite company pretended they didn't see such things, as they didn't see a woman's figure when she was to have a baby, or Negro housemaids mysteriously having mulatto children resembling their white owners. Theirs was a society skilled at not noticing.

One of the upstairs doors opened. Jack Kavanaugh stumbled out, pausing for a farewell kiss from a girl who looked to be about thirteen or fourteen. Mulder’s father didn't comment, so Mulder swallowed hard and shifted his attention back to the bar as the bartender filled two shot glasses.

"Drink it all at once. Tilt your head back and swallow," his father instructed, picking up his own glass.

Mulder did as he was told. Seconds later, as he gasped for breath, he wondered how anyone could find this a pleasurable habit. No wonder the Indians called it firewater.

"Another, Senator?" the bartender asked, holding the bottle ready.

"I'll have brandy next. What do you want, Fox?"

"Cider?" He didn’t see anything else palatable listed on the sign over the bar. 

"And an apple cider," his father repeated. He teased his son, "You aren't having another whiskey?" 

"Not unless you say I have to, sir," Mulder replied. His head felt funny and his nose tingled. This might be what being drunk felt like; he wasn't sure. They had wine with dinner and beer if he had lunch with his father, but whiskey was different. Whiskey seemed illicit, like the women upstairs.

"Good boy." Bill Mulder hesitated in what was, Mulder recognized years later, indecision. As a boy, he'd thought his father omnipotent, an easy assumption if one's father was a Massachusetts politician. "You are a good boy, Fox. What happened with Sarah was- You and Sarah learned to crawl together. Your mother let the two of you run wild, thinking you were children. I was a young man once; I knew you were not a child, but I thought Sarah would insist you behaved yourself. Obviously, you got carried away and I misjudged her."

Mulder gritted his teeth. “You did not misjudge her, sir.”

“Did I misjudge you? Did you force the girl?” his father asked disbelievingly. “I did not raise a son who would do such a thing.”

"I didn't do anything to Sarah." Mulder’s tongue felt thick. "Sir," he added respectfully. 

"All right," his father responded, sounding unconvinced. 

For months, Sarah Kavanaugh's death had been the most covertly discussed event in DC. Her father, Congressman Kavanaugh of Tennessee, said she'd died of cholera. Gossip insisted she miscarried and bled to death, and cast a curious eye at Senator Mulder's son: Sarah's friend and, though the engagement hadn't been announced, her fiancé. 

"I didn't," Mulder insisted. He stared at Kavanaugh as the man stumbled down the steps and to the opposite end of the bar. Kavanaugh made his way across the noisy saloon, staggering and bringing a whiskey bottle with him. 

When Congress was in session, the Kavanaughs and the Mulders were neighbors. Mrs. Kavanaugh died when the girls were small, and Sarah and Melissa often fled to the Mulders' house, sleeping in a spare bedroom until their father sobered up and came to collect them. “Poor Jack Kavanaugh never got over his wife's death, bless his heart,” the ladies had said for a decade, but now “Poor Jack Kavanaugh drinks to forget his oldest daughter's tragic death, bless his heart.” In the House of Representatives, Poor Jack Kavanaugh was a political legend, a bastion of the community for reasons no one, if pressed, could remember anymore.

"The ill wind which blows no man to good," Bill Mulder quoted, watching Kavanaugh approach. "I don't like that fellow, Fox," he said quietly, which surprised Mulder. While his father would debate a bill hotly for weeks, he seldom voiced a negative opinion about his fellow man. It made Mulder feel as if he'd been taken into an adult confidence. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but I don't. Even though it would have been a good match, I'm glad he isn't going to be your father-in-law."

"I want to be married," Mulder announced.

His father put down the brandy snifter and raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"I want to be married right now."

"Don't be ridiculous, son. You can't go to West Point if you're married."

"I don't want to go to West Point. I don't want to go in the military. I didn't know how to tell you. I thought you'd be disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed. Just surprised. Well-" His father picked up his glass again, tilting the golden liquid. "You could have mentioned it before I bought you all those uniforms. You want to go to Harvard?"

"No. I don't want to be a lawyer. I don't want to be a politician. I'm proud of you. I know you do good things in Congress, but I don't think I want to do that. I want to marry Melly. Right now." 

"Melly who? Sarah's sister Melly? Melissa Kavanaugh?" Bill Mulder said in disbelief. "Right now? Calm down, son. There's smoke rolling from your ears. I thought you were looking forward to going off to school."

"I am, but I want to marry Melly, too. It’s the same family. It’s still a good match." 

"Fine. You want to marry Melissa Kavanaugh,” his father said, clearly pacifying him. “That's an, uh, interesting idea. Let me think about it. For now, you'll go to school, see the world, and if you still want to-" There was a long, uncomfortable pause while feet shifted and glasses sloshed. "Why her? I thought Melly annoyed you. You called Sarah's sister is a stupid pest, but I suppose you aren't nine any longer. They do look alike. Does she remind you of Sarah?"

"Yes. No," he corrected. "I don't want to wait four years. I want to marry her now. Please, Father. You can't say no."

"I can say no," his father responded sternly. "And I am. Stop this foolishness, Fox. You're too young, and I think you're lonely and nervous about school. I know you miss Sarah..." Bill Mulder hesitated again, and his voice softened. "You made a mistake, Fox. A tragic mistake, for her. If I had known... But it can’t be fixed.”

Mulder stared at the polished bar.

“I know you miss Sarah,” Bill Mulder said. “It's been months, and you’re still so lost. It worries your mother. I've been thinking about it and I've decided... Fox, you are sixteen. Kavanaugh's colored girl, Poppy: she looks like Sarah, too. A great deal. I can arrange..." His father swallowed. "Fox, if it would make you feel better, I can arrange to have Poppy work for us. I can arrange for her to go off to school with you, even. But please, do not let your mother catch you."

Mulder shook his head. He understood what his father offered, but did not want it.

"All right," Bill Mulder said gently. "I'll go with you to Harvard, get you settled in. It will be fine. It will be a good change of scenery. And Melissa- Well, in a few years, we'll see. I think you'll grow out of this notion."

Kavanaugh was halfway down the bar. He paused to shake hands and have a shot of whiskey with a businessman.

"Melly's going to have a baby," Mulder blurted out. 

Bill Mulder's face fell. He looked so disappointed Mulder cowered. In the dream, Mulder saw the silent 'where did I go wrong,' self-incrimination in his eyes, but his father said, "Oh, Fox. No. What are you thinking? Tell me you could be mistaken.”

Mulder shook his head; there was no mistake.

“You have been with Sarah’s sister?”

He nodded miserably. "We want to get married, Father," he pleaded. "Please. I'll go to school wherever you want if Melly and I can get married, and if she can stay with you and Mother while I'm at school."

"Fox-” His father exhaled. “Son, even if she is with child – your child - are you sure you want to spend your life taking care of this girl? Yes, she's beautiful, and she seems sweet, but she's also- She's delicate. She's not very bright, even for a woman. Sarah was perfect for you. She kept you in line, kept those wild ideas balanced. Sarah was like a curb bit. But Melissa... I would not have let you walk away from your responsibility to Sarah, but Melissa... I fear Melissa will not be an asset; she will be a burden. Fox, sometimes I look in her eyes and there's no life there."

"Because Melly's the pretty one," he'd responded. "and Sarah's gone."

"I don't understa-"

"Happy birthday, boy!" Kavanaugh announced loudly. He slung his arm around Mulder's shoulders, making him jump. "Fourteen, right? Or fifteen? Good to see you're teaching this boy some propriety, Bill," he said to Mulder's father. He added in a stage whisper, nodding to the girls upstairs, "See boy: that's where your prick goes. Not in my daughter."

"He's drunk, Fox," he heard his father's voice say as the world went red. "Let me handle it."

Working on eight months of hurt over Sarah's death, his first drink of hard liquor, and the lithe grace of an angry young man, Mulder jerked away. He slid off the bar stool and, with one punch, knocked Kavanaugh sprawling on the expensive Oriental rug. "Yours doesn't go in your daughter, either," Mulder hissed through clenched teeth. "You son of a bitch!"

Bill Mulder stared at his son with his mouth agape and his brandy snifter at a precarious angle.

The drinking and flirting and piano playing paused, took note of the scene at the end of the bar, and continued at the same frantic, hollow pace.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth, Fox?" his father said a few minutes later. Bill Mulder folded his arms as he leaned against the hitching post outside the saloon. Inside, Kavanaugh still lay on the rug.

"Sarah never told me. I didn't know what was happening until after- Until after she died. I had no idea. Sarah would not have let me do that do her."

“But Melissa would?” His father scrutinized him. "Fox, are you certain - very certain - this child Melissa is carrying is yours? You have been with this girl and you are the father of her child?"

Mulder bit lower lip before he nodded. Poppy had taken Melissa to a doctor; Melissa was with child. And, however awkwardly and briefly, Mulder had been with Melissa the way husbands were with wives. The way the men in the saloon were with the women upstairs.

Bill Mulder’s jaw broadened. “I never thought I would say this to my son, but I advise you to deny it, Fox.”

“No,” Mulder said, the first time in his life he defied his father. “Everyone will know soon, and I won’t deny it. I know Melly is not bright, but she is kind. She is talented. She does love me. I did this to her. I want to marry her, and I want to take care of her.”

“Which is what you will do, Fox. Take care of her. You could be President of the United States. You could lead armies. You could help build this great county-”

“No,” Mulder repeated.

There was a long silence.

"All right,” his father said. “We have to tell your mother. She’s going to cry, faint, and cry some more. She's going to be a grandmother at thirty-three. I won't hear the end of this for years."

"Sir," Mulder said uncertainly, as they mounted their horses. "I am sorry."

"It's done," his father said tersely. "You've made your decision. I pray it turns out the way you want it to." He tried to smile, but didn’t. 

Bill Mulder had put on his hat; he was the only man in the world who could ride a horse at a trot without his top hat falling off. He'd been thirty-six; not much older than Mulder was the year Melly and his father died and Samuel disappeared. 

“After you tell your mother – and you are telling your mother about this, not me, Fox,” his father informed him, “Invite Melissa to stay with us tonight. I doubt her father will sober up enough to stagger home but I want her at our house tonight. She carries my grandchild. Have her sleep in her and Sarah’s old room. I want you in your room at the other end of the hall. No nocturnal visiting or, sixteen or not, I will take a razor strop to your backside. Melissa can sleep there until the wedding, and she can stay in your bedroom while you’re away at school.”

“Yes sir.” His stomach quaked at the thought of facing his mother, but he guided his horse after his father’s.

“Samuel is a nice name for a boy,” his father told him. “I thought of naming you Samuel after your grandfather on my side. It was your seventeen-year-old mother who insisted on ‘Fox.’”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill Mulder twisted back in the saddle and added, “I wish you would have hit that son-of-a-bitch Kavanaugh harder,” which had made young Mulder feel better, and his adult self, watching the dream from above, grin.

*~*~*~*

As long as Mulder didn't move or breathe, he existed in moderate agony. His brain had absorbed several gallons of water, so it squished whenever he tried to move his head. His stomach - the miserable battlefield between his ribs and hips - had revolted and been beaten into submission with a rock hammer.

A cold, wet cloth passed over his forehead, and his cheeks. Mulder opened his eyes.

"You were smiling," Dana said quietly. She turned away to rinse the washcloth. She wore a white chemise, and her hair hung over her shoulder in a long, thick auburn braid. The clock indicated four in the morning. "In your sleep, you were smiling, so I did not wake you. Were you dreaming of Melissa?"

"My father," he rasped, his lips dry. The lamp beside the bed burned low, barely illuminating the ornate mahogany furniture of their stateroom. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and took a careful, shaky breath he regretted. "I was dreaming of my father."

She turned away again, and this time returned with a cup of warm liquid she held to his lips. 

"Ginger tea," Dana explained as he tried to pull away. "It will help your stomach."

"That's not tea; that's horrible." He scooted up on the pillows so he wasn't at her mercy, and took the cup before she tried to make him drink it again. 

His chest was bare, as were his feet underneath the blankets, though he didn't remember her undressing him. 

The only thing less romantic than their nonexistent courtship, brief engagement, and hasty wedding was the wedding night.

"So, Mr. Mulder… You get seasick," she said gently. "I promised 'in sickness and in health,' but I did not know I would be tested so soon."

He frowned, dipped his fingertips in the teacup, and flicked them at her. She wiped the drops off and went back to bathing him, running the washcloth over his shoulders. She examined the small scar from the minie ball, and went on. 

"Nice," he mumbled. He set the cup aside and relaxed. Not much felt good, but at least this didn't feel worse.

"The ship's doctor was here. He said you should drink the tea, and to go for a walk on deck in the morning. He said you would be sicker if you stay inside."

"I'll take it under advisement." He closed his eyes. The cloth passed over his eyelids and down the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, Dana."

"Why are you sorry?" 

He didn't answer.

"Tell me about your dream," she said quietly. 

"Why?" 

Water swished in the basin. It splashed and dripped as she wrung out the washcloth. She pushed the sheet down, bathing his chest. This time the cool cloth traced the raised scar from a rebel bayonet. 

He remembered lying under the merciless sun in Tennessee, listening to flies and death buzzing around him. The grass had been dry and prickly, the dirt parched. They beat the Confederates – butchered the Confederates - so gray-clad bodies and dark red splotches of dried blood littered the grass field. Mulder remembered thinking he was near the Kavanaugh's home at Missionary Ridge, and wasn't surprised to see Sarah walking toward him in a white dress. She trailed her hands along the tops of the dead weeds. She'd been dead a decade, he realized, and if he saw her, he was dead, too. There would be no one to take care of Melly and Samuel. Sarah shook her head and turned away, and disappeared into the trees at the edge of the field. His next memory was of waking in a hospital a week later.

To Dana, Mulder said, "I dreamed of the evening I told Father he was going to be a grandfather. He was more worried than angry, I think, but he did the right thing. Once Samuel arrived- For the next thirteen years, people crossed the street so he couldn't buttonhole them with stories of his remarkably talented, sinfully handsome grandson."

"You told the river men your father died."

"Yes, he died. It was sudden. Father was a senator, and he was trying to negotiate the surrender of Richmond. The doctors think it was his heart, but his heart never troubled him before. It happened a few months after Melly... After Melly passed away."

He tilted his head from side to side as she washed his neck, deciding the pleasant coolness outweighed the discomfort of moving.

"How did Melissa die?"

Seconds passed before he responded. "An accident. She was not well. I was supposed watch her but I fell asleep. Samuel found her.” He paused. “Why did it bother you last night when I was drinking with those men around the fire?"

Water swished and splashed again. "I am not sure it is proper to discuss one husband with another," she answered slowly.

"Oh," he responded. He shifted painfully to his side and scooted back on the mattress. "Come to bed. Get some sleep."

She put the basin aside and folded the blankets down beside him.

"Try not to jiggle. Or be warm. Or breathe," he requested as she blew out the lamp.

*~*~*~* 

Women were soft; he'd forgotten.

Mulder was accustomed to touching them; all gentlemen were. Lifting them into or out of a buggy, helping a lady who had fainted, or being a solicitous escort, but contact through the merciless whalebone of a corset, and layers of hoops and petticoats. In their natural state, like asleep beside him, women were infinitely soft.

His hand rested comfortably in the valley of Dana's waist as he opened his eyes. The coal-fed engines droned, pushing the ship through the darkness. A lamp flickered across the room, casting long, yellow shadows on the wall behind it. Dana's back fitted nicely against his front, and her skin, through her nightgown, felt warm under his fingertips. 

Mulder was about to go back to sleep as Emily mewed. The baby did not cry. Rather, she announced she was awake and thinking of a late-night snack.

"Baby," he mumbled to Dana. He jostled her. "Dana, the baby wants you."

She said something unintelligible in Gaelic and cuddled against him as if she planned to hibernate until spring. 

Emily reiterated her request, stressing its urgency.

After three days, the seasickness subsided to the point he no longer dreaded moving, though he didn't look forward to it. Mulder pushed up on his elbow. He checked the room stayed level, and swung his bare feet over the side of the bed. 

He owned a nightshirt at some point, but he didn't now, and he wasn't likely to in the future. He did own and usually slept in undershirts: short-sleeve cotton for summer and long sleeved wool for winter, but abandoned both two Georgian Augusts ago. What remained of his sleeping attire were the bottoms; in this instance, the loose fitting, cream-colored summer flannels with a row of tiny buttons at the fly. The form-fitting wool drawers he wore in winter were the same way; anything a man might need to remove his underwear to do, with all those buttons, he better be able to wait a minute to do it.

He rubbed his arms briskly against the onslaught of cool air, and leaned over the cradle. "You do realize it's midnight, don't you?" he asked Emily, who  
appeared unashamed. 

Dana left a blanket spread over the floor beside the cradle, and he laid Emily on it. He gave her his finger to hold while he got everything ready. After a few tries, he had a dry diaper folded and pinned so all the important parts were covered - not an easy trick with a baby who'd discovered she could roll over and escape. First class maids were a wonderful thing, so he left the wet diaper for the laundress and settled Emily against his shoulder. He put one hand on her head and the other on her dry behind.

"Would you consider going back to sleep for Daddy?" He rubbed her back encouragingly. "Let your mother rest?"

Emily snuggled against him, radiating baby-heat. She let Mulder rock and murmur to her for several minutes before she decided, no - that wouldn't do after all.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Dana. He put his hand on her shoulder. "The baby," he whispered, hating to wake her. "Dana, the baby."

"Yes?" she mumbled. She rubbed her eyes, blinking at him as she sat up. "What is it? Is something wrong, Mr. Mulder?"

"The baby," he repeated with an amused smile. She woke like a kitten: happy to be here, but unsure where ‘here’ was. Small words worked best. He pushed a loose strand of hair back from her face and brushed his thumb along her jawbone. "Dana, the baby." 

She blinked at him again, trying to focus her eyes. She caressed his face in return and laid back down, watching him and waiting. 

"Oh. Dana, no,” He amended quickly. “I am not calling you ‘baby.’ I mean the baby. Emily. She's hungry."

"Oh." She sat up again, seeming to notice the infant squirming against his bare chest. "Oh," she repeated sheepishly, and reached for her daughter. "All right. I will feed her. Thank you for telling me."

"You are welcome," he answered, very politely for a man wearing drawers. 

Mulder lay down. He tucked his feet under the blankets and crossed his arms across his chest. As he waited for sleep to come, he watched Dana gather up a spare blanket, preparing to take Emily to the next room to nurse her.

"Dana," he called as she started to leave, his voice carefully casual. "It's warmer in here."

Equally neutrally, she agreed. The large bedroom had a sofa and several chairs, but no wall or screen to provide privacy.

"I'm going back to sleep. It's dark. There's no sense in you and the baby being cold or uncomfortable."

"You need to rest. I would not want to disturb you."

"You won't."

In silent invitation, he scooted back a few inches so he was in the middle of the broad mattress, leaving ample space for her in front of him. He pushed up on one elbow, ignoring the protest from his stomach. "You brought her to bed last night to bed to feed her." 

"I thought you were asleep. Were you pretending, Mr. Mulder?"

"I woke up and peeked," he admitted tiredly.

"Will you be peeking again?" she asked with a note of embarrassed amusement in her voice.

"I can't promise either way. I am your husband. Stop shivering, bring the baby, and come back to bed, Dana."

After a few seconds, the mattress dipped as she sat. She laid down with the baby in front of her and her back to Mulder. A ribbon whispered as she untied the top of her chemise, baring one breast. In the dim light, he saw Emily's tiny hand resting on Dana's breast, and her glistening eyes looking up at her mother as she nursed.

"Sammy used to do that," Mulder said softly. "With his hand. As a baby."

Her profile smiled and nodded. “Melissa nursed Samuel?”

“No. Of course not. He had a nursemaid. Poppy. I remember watching her feed him.” Realizing how odd that sounded, he added, “Poppy is colored.” He would not have watched a white nursemaid.

“Oh,” Dana responded neutrally.

Mulder scooted closer to Dana. He pulled the blanket up to their waists and pillowed his head on his folded right arm. With his left hand, he traced down her shoulder and along her arm until his hand covered hers on Emily.

The ship rocked as it cut through the waves along the east coast, carrying them home. The ache in his gut faded, leaving behind a weak, wrung-out feeling. With his eyes closed, he heard the water crashing against the hull and the baby's mouth moving against Dana's breast. Dana's bottom was warm and round against his pelvis, causing a pleasant sensation in his belly and groin. Not an arousal; a comforting reminder he wasn't dead.

Soon, he told himself. Home, intimacy, normalcy. 

Soon.

*~*~*~*

As much as people liked to think themselves enigmas, they weren't. What they owned and how they conducted themselves all said much more about them than they realized. It was a matter of taking time and caring enough to notice.

Mulder sat in the deck chair, watched the waves, and toyed with the cuff of his new sweater, considering.

Still too sick to go shopping himself, he'd sent Dana ashore with one of the ship's officers. It wasn't an optimal solution, but she desperately needed new dresses, and Mulder craved anything that wasn't a cavalry uniform. She returned with wedding bands, clothing and underclothing for him and the baby, and two dresses: both stylish, both properly-fitting and flattering, and both jet black.

She was welcome to wear whatever she liked, but it seemed odd to mourn one husband while honeymooning with another. Maybe she wore black for other men she'd lost, for her father and brothers. Or she thought black versatile and serviceable. She did not know Melly kept the dressmakers in business; Mulder had better things to do than scrutinize and complain about his wife's expenses. Maybe those dresses were all the stores had. Or Dana liked black.

With formerly wealthy southern families selling off heirlooms, fine jewelry was plentiful. The northern vultures coming south to feed looked like they'd been dipped in gold batter and floured in diamonds. Mulder told her to pick whatever rings she wanted, and Dana had chosen two plain wedding bands identical to the ones they replaced. She returned to the ship wearing hers, but his new ring was in a box on the dresser this morning.

He hadn't figured her out yet, but he working at it. He was in charge of this dance and he knew the steps, but part of being a good dancer was knowing his partner. 

He knew she didn't like tomatoes. Not fresh, not stewed, not in sauces. If Dana was in charge, tomatoes wouldn't be permitted to grow, let alone be eaten.

He knew she liked fine things against her skin: underclothes, nightgowns - even the navy blue sweater and tan trousers she selected for him were petal soft. There was nothing frilly or fru-fru about her clothing, but neither was she severe. Her taste was elegant and understated; it was expensive, but it wasn't designed to specifically look like it was expensive.

In his opinion, she merely pretended to dislike his jokes. 

Unlike Melly, who would cower or burst into tears if he raised his voice, Dana either ignored his black moods and sarcasm or seemed discomfortingly amused. Her promise to be more biddable had yet to materialize.

She liked sleeping beside Mulder at night, and he liked her there. Their berth had several bedrooms. She could have designated his as the sick room and slept elsewhere, if she wanted. Emily's cradle started out in the parlor and each night crept closer to their bed until the baby slept a few feet from them. Mulder had yet to object. The subject of a wet nurse had also yet to be raised. There were no further midnight trips into the next room to feed the baby in private.

Dana was comfortable caring for him while he was ill, and did not seem to think of his body as boorish or dirty. Most girls were raised to be fearful and prudish, and young men taught to expect their wives to be good mothers, but less-than-enthusiastic bedmates. For ladies, marital relations were a weekly chore: like laundry, but less pleasurable. If a gentleman wanted passion, or even to break a sweat in bed, he should look elsewhere rather than embarrass his wife. Dana had the middle-class notion men were touchable, and - though he should not be - Mulder was secretly glad of it.

Dana thought more than she said, but what she said was worth listening to.

He couldn't say for certain she was happy, but she didn't seem unhappy, and that was a start.

When he kissed her, she kissed back.

He watched Dana walking across the deck toward him. Her skirt and the blanket covering the baby fluttered in the breeze. She walked gracefully on a ship. Mulder preferred to sit and not press his luck. Not recognizing him at first, Dana started to pass him to take Emily back to their rooms, but stopped and looked puzzled. She'd never seen him out of uniform.

Mulder held out a white silk flower to her. He twirled the wire stem between his fingertips so the petals spun.

"For me?" she asked.

"I stole it off an old lady's hat." He gestured for her to sit on the deck chair next to his. "She'll never miss it."

She smiled and sat, setting Emily on her lap so she could watch the ocean. "How do you feel? Better?"

"I feel less bad." 

"Good."

"No, not good; just less bad."

She wrinkled her forehead as if not quite understanding.

He grinned and reached for her hand. 

"You found your ring," she observed. "Is it all right?"

"Um-hum." Mulder propped his boots up on a wooden footstool and let their entwined fingers rest on his thigh. He felt the salty wind on his face. It was definitely less bad.

*~*~*~*

It sounded odd to say Mulder had barely talked with a woman in fifteen years, but he hadn't. He exchanged information. He politely filled silence. He had talked to, but seldom talked with a woman. 

He and Sarah used to talk about everything. At five, they sneaked up to the hayloft, stripped naked, and examined the differences between Methodists and Presbyterians. At nine, they sat on the limb of the maple tree in his backyard and decided to kiss each other to see what all the fuss was about. Not much, they concluded at the time, later to revise their opinion. At eleven, she persuaded him not to run away and join the circus, pointing out he'd miss a dinner of roast beef with carrots and new potatoes. And at fifteen, two months before she died, they were bent over their books in the Mulders' kitchen, studying, when he asked Sarah if she loved him. “How could I not?” she'd replied calmly, and returned to her French verbs.

Those memories belonged to a different person. A brother, an old friend, or a cousin. A man he shared a common background with, but not Mulder. As he set aside and guarded the husband he was to Melly, he packed away the boy he was to Sarah and pushed it far into the attic of his heart.

There was nothing remarkable about the story of Dana's life except it was hers, and Mulder wanted to hear it. She didn't discuss Dr. Waterston, but he didn't expect her to. Her memories of her childhood in Ireland, of her family, kept them talking late into the night. As the hours passed, shoes were discarded and top buttons loosened until they were as comfortable as two people were allowed to be and still be decent. 

"Were you caught?" he asked as she started to pour him another cup of repulsive ginger tea. She thought the stuff had medicinal properties, which it did; it made him gag. "Don't bother. I won't drink it."

"I can put sugar in it."

"Put sugar in it, leave out the ginger, and add tea leaves, and I'll drink it."

She set the teapot down on the silver tray, leaving the cup unfilled.

"Did you get caught?" he asked again. He leaned back on the sofa and crossed his long legs casually at the ankle. "Throwing rotten apples?" 

"No. My brothers got whippings, but they were too embarrassed to admit their apples had not hit anyone and mine had. My apple hit our neighbor in the back of his head. I ducked back behind the tree, so he turned to see Bill and Charlie in the orchard with apples in their hands. They took a whipping rather than admit they had missed, and their baby sister had not. I think my father suspected, though." She smiled sadly, looking past him and into distant memory. "It does not seem like so long ago."

"Would you like me to check with the Navy and see-" 

"No," she answered quickly. "They are dead. There is no mistake. I cannot do what you do, Mr. Mulder. I cannot live on hope and whispers. I have to live with what is, not what if."

His arm was resting along the top of the couch, and he rubbed his fingertips over the rich upholstery as he worried his lips. "Is that what you think I do?" he asked, careful not to let anger creep into his voice. "I refuse to believe the truth? If someone would bring me a body and prove it is Samuel, I would not believe them?"

She turned to him, putting her hand over his. "I did not-"

"Don't you think I know he is dead? I know." Rage boiled dangerously inside him. "I know it, but I don't feel it. Don't you think I've seen him die a thousand times in my nightmares?"

"I know-"

"No, you don't know. He is my son, Dana - my baby boy. I raised him. Nothing and no one is more important to me. He trusted me. I said 'go put up the horses; your mother will be fine,' but I fell asleep and his mother is dead. And his baby sister with her. I went back to the war and left him alone. To hell with the Goddamn war! Let the south secede; I don't care. Let the south take their slaves and cotton and state's rights and build a wall through the middle of the country. But, no. 'Father has to go, Sam. Stay with Grandfather. Everything will be all right.' It won't be all right, Dana. My son is gone. My father, my wife, and my baby are all dead. It will never, ever be all right. Don't tell me you know, Dana, because you have no damn idea."

He swallowed angrily, clenching and releasing his teeth and embarrassed.

"You are correct, Mr. Mulder. I do not know how it feels to lose a child," she said evenly. "But I do know how it feels to lose everyone else."

He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and keeping his eyes jammed shut until the urge to cry passed. He had raised his voice and swore at her; the last thing he intended to do was start sobbing in front of her. Mulder hadn't cried since he was ten. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "You didn't deserve that."

"I did not mean to upset you. I meant..." She rubbed her hand over his back as if she tried to smooth out the pain.

"I know what you meant." He turned his head to look at her. Dana's face was close to his. He kissed her and smirked unenthusiastically. "Aren't I a laugh a minute? Say the word and I can arrange an annulment and a ticket to Ireland."

She put her hand on his cheek, stroking her thumb over his skin. "Please do not pull away. I see you hurting, and I am not sure how to help. You have been so kind to me-" 

"Snapping at you: yes, so kind," he interrupted.

"-and to my daughter." She smoothed his hair back from his temple. "You are so alone. When I ask if you are all right, you seem surprised, as though no one has asked you in a long time. You are so hungry-"

"Hungry?"

"I think that is the right word. Hungry. Men can hunger for the truth. Can men also hunger to be cared for? To be loved?"

Caught off-guard, he wet his lips. "Do you love me? No, never mind," he amended quickly. "With all that's happened in the last week, what an awful question. Never mind."

Her hand left his face and smoothed her black skirt anxiously. "I-I do not know what I feel. I know I am not Melissa-" 

"I don't expect you to be Melly. I do not want you to be. I don't, Dana," he said earnestly.

"I do care you are hurting. I would like-" She slid her lower lip between her teeth. "I would like to lessen your pain, if I can."

He still slouched forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees, with his head turned toward her. "Do you? Love me?"

"I will," she answered softly.

"You will what?" he asked.

"I will love you."

To his surprise, Dana stood, and began unfastening the buttons on the front of her new dress. She watched her fingers. One buttonhole was tight, and she worked determinedly until she got it undone. She pushed the fabric back from her shoulders, down over her hips, and draped the dress over the opposite end of the sofa and started undoing the waist of her petticoat.

"Dana," he said quietly, reverently, "I think we were talking about two different kinds of love."

She paused, looking self-conscious. "Oh no. I should stop?"

"Under no circumstances," he responded in the same reverent voice.

She let the ruffled petticoat fall to the floor so a pile of white material as high as her knees surrounded her. Mulder should leave and let her undress privately, but he sat mesmerized. Except for stumbling onto Dana in her bedroom the night at Waterston's plantation, he'd never seen a woman undressing. Undressed, yes, but not undressing. Propriety be damned - he wasn't leaving or looking away unless she told him to. Normally, there would be more layers: a corset cover, and a hoop or more petticoats. He was sorry there weren't more clothes, since he couldn't watch her take them off. 

Staring at her like a hungry wolf must have been disconcerting, because her fingers created knots in the laces of her corset.

"Permit me," he offered. "Do I untie it?" he asked. She nodded and turned around. He worked the tight laces loose until she could slip off the stiff, boned fabric. "You don't have to do this," he reminded her. "I won't insist. Is it too soon?"

"I have never had a baby before. Many women have a child every year, so it must be all right, I would think." She turned around, looking at him uncertainly, as though he might know.

Mulder had no idea. 

"Why don't we go slowly?" he suggested, standing up. “All right?"

"All right," she murmured. She untied the waist of her pantalets. They fell to the floor, and she wore a chemise.

She let him lead her toward the big bed. 

"You'll tell me if you want me to stop?"

She nodded again. He did too, like they'd reached a binding contractual agreement.

He stopped beside the bed, looking down at her, an unwelcome thought taking root where passion should have been. She would love him physically. She was his wife and it was the correct - and overdue - thing to do. Dana liked knowing and doing the right thing; he'd learned that about her. Whether it was conjugating a verb or consummating a marriage, she liked to follow rules. She would please him in bed, run his house, and meet his every need - and he would never know if it was because she wanted to or because she was obligated.

She exhaled and began unfastening the buttons of his shirtfront. He let her strip it and his undershirt off, leaving him bare-chested. He resumed watching her. He didn't move to touch or kiss her, and after a few seconds, she looked away, flustered and awkward.

"Mr. Mulder, you can say if this is not what you want. If you are still unwell. Or if I am doing something wrong. When you asked me to marry you and on the road that day, I thought... Please tell me what you want. I am confused."

"I think I'm confused about what I want." He raised his hand, tracing her cheek with his fingertip.

"Tell me. I will do whatever you want."

He sat on the edge of the bed and guided her to sit facing him. "There is something I want to know. Something I want to ask you, first."

"What is it?"

He took her hand, toying with it as he asked slowly, "If there were no vows. No marriage. No potential of a baby. No sin," he said, trying to preempt her potential objections. "No consequences or expectations. If it was us, a man and a woman, would you want this?"

She watched him intently for some clue as to how to proceed, and he saw her blink.

"Would you be with me because you wanted to?" he asked, boiling his question down to a single sentence. “Do you care for me that way?”

"I, I-" she started uncertainly. "I do not know how to answer. We are married. We could have a child. Fornication is a sin. There are other factors."

"But if there were no other factors, Dana," he pressed her.

"There are, Mr. Mulder," she insisted. "For a woman, regardless of what she wants, there are other factors."

"You told me if Dr. Waterston was dead, you did not want to marry again."

"I did. You offered me some kind advice I have tried to heed."

"The advice was about..." He looked at her steadily. "About choosing to follow a man who is worth following."

Her voice softened and she looked down. "Yes."

"All right," he said after a moment, his tone matching hers. "You are correct; there are other factors. You cannot answer me, and I should never have asked you to."

"All right." She took a slow breath. Her breasts rose and fell beneath the white chemise.

He smoothed his thumb across her palm. "We aren't off to the best start, are we?"

"At marriage or at, at this? At this type of love?"

"Yes," he answered, and earned a smile.

He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger against the cool skin, and leaned down and rested his cheek against hers.

She shifted closer, and he felt her hand on his forearm. "It is a quest, you said. The beginning of an adventure," she whispered.

He slid one hand across the fabric covering her back and let his fingers caress her neck. "I like mysteries. I wonder what we'll discover?"

She didn't respond aloud, but her lips touched his jaw and made their way diagonally down his neck. Each kiss sent sparks to his spine.

He closed his eyes.

"I cannot separate the other things I feel - friendship, gratitude, affection, duty - to say what I would want if I felt none of those things," she explained with her lips close to his ear. Her warm breath made the tiny hairs stand at attention. "But, if I am allowed to consider them - to be close to my husband, to please him, to give him another child - my answer would be yes, I think."

"All right," he answered softly. He pressed his lips in a trail along her jaw and to her mouth. As they kissed, he felt the tension drain from his body. Something pleasant built inside him. Affectionate. Trusting. Instead of pulling back, he let the flow of emotions carry him along, the way the tide carried a raft away from shore and out to sea.

Mulder slipped beneath the covers with her. He untied the ribbon at the neck of her chemise and watched her chest rise and fall with each breath. He touched her through the fabric, tracing the slope and peak of her breast. He pushed the thin cloth aside and cupped her breast with his hand. His fingers molded to the yielding flesh.

She inhaled, and he glanced up at her face. He had minimal experience with breasts serving a practical purpose. "Dana?"

"Fine," she assured him. She pulled her shoulders back as he stroked her nipple. "The baby will need to eat soon," she added, explaining the drop of milk that appeared.

"Is this all right?"

She nodded, and he lowered his head. He pressed his tongue flat against her nipple and licked and teased rather than sucked. Dana's breath caught again. She rested her hand on his shoulder as he switched breasts. 

"Nice. Soft. Sweet," he mumbled.

“It is nice,” she told him.

He ran one hand down her hip and up her thigh. His fingers whispered against her skin, tracing invisible, secret paths. She raised her hips so he could push her chemise up, and she pulled the chemise over her head and tossed it aside. Nightgowns, in Mulder’s experience, came up, not off, preserving modesty, but her body was bare. Blankets covered her from the waist down, and he would cover her from the waist up.

The lamps on the walls were lit. She didn't ask him to snuff them.

She lay back, and he laid down beside her. Undressed, she seemed so small.

Mulder touched her breast again. When they kissed, her lips parted. Her mouth tasted sweet and faintly of mint. He felt her leg drape over his hip. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her earlobe. “Still fine?" he whispered.

"Fine," she answered softly. “Nice.”

He pulled back a few inches. "Dana, I can count on one hand the number of women I've kissed," he admitted. "I married Melly at sixteen; there hasn't been anyone since. Not in the carnal sense. Melly was- she was different from you."

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"No.” He swallowed. “Close your eyes." He slid his hand down her soft stomach and beneath the covers. His fingers drifted through the silky patch of hair and to the moist, delicate skin beneath. "Spread your legs," he whispered huskily, and she did. Her breathing changed as he touched her, exploring, stroking. He found the little lump of flesh that – according to the marriage manuals – was the center of female pleasure. Her legs remained apart. She turned her head to the side and clutched a handful of the blanket in her fist.

"It's all right," he assured her, and explained, “If I do this first, you will be more comfortable in a moment.”

Dana gritted her teeth and, as he requested, kept her eyes tightly closed. Her mouth moved, making silent vowel sounds, and her thighs trembled. Mulder explored with one finger, and two fingers, and heard her gasp. Her expression looked pained.

"Does that hurt?"

"No," she managed.

Not completely convinced, he stopped, and withdrew his fingers from the warm, slick entrance to her body. After a second, she opened her eyes. 

He knelt between her legs, still wearing his trousers. The blankets had gotten pushed aside, and the soft curls of hair covering her sex were dark auburn. He smelled her. He looked down at her, transfixed. He had a collection of expensive – and illegal - pornographic photographs and tintypes locked in his desk in DC; Dana put the women in those pictures to shame.

Dana hesitated, but sat up and brought her hand to the bulge at the front of his trousers. She rubbed, and he gasped. He touched himself, sometimes, but no one else had touched him there since he was a teenager. The sensation of a woman’s hand remained as pleasant as he remembered. 

“Do you want me to undress you?” Dana asked.

“I can do it,” Mulder said, though her undressing him seemed an appealing plan for another night.

She lay back against the pillows. "Like this, or turn over, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder stopped unbuttoning his trousers. He stared at her, taking a few seconds to figure out what she meant. Did he want Dana on her back or on her hands and knees? It wasn't a choice he'd encountered before. Again, an appealing option for another night.

"Like this. You do aim to please," he commented.

He finished unbuttoning and lay down, pulling a blanket to cover their hips and legs. He pushed down the front of his trousers and drawers, and move over top of her. Her sex felt hot against his erection. Slick. Inviting. She inhaled as he pressed against her. 

“I do want to please you,” she whispered, and ran her fingers through his hair. Her fingernails grazed his scalp.

“I do not want to hurt you,” he confessed. 

“I know.”

He kissed her again. As they embraced, Dana shifted beneath him, opening her legs farther. She put her hands above her head. He had liked her touching him, and again he had to puzzle out why she had stopped. 

“I do not want to hold you down,” he told her. “Nor do you need to be still.”

Mulder again felt her hands on his shoulders, stroking, scratching lightly. Her breasts pressed against his bare chest. Her mouth found his earlobe, which he'd never realized had so many nerve endings. He pushed his erection an inch into her sex, and she inhaled. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. At the second gentle thrust, she gasped and managed, “Nice,” in a manner he judged to be partially true. At the third thrust; he pushed harder, and the tight chasm of muscles relented. She moved beneath him and cried out. He made sure the fourth stroke was slower. 

He tried not to be eager, but a few more thrusts and he filled her: a delicious, hot sensation. The feeling was melted chocolate and warm honey and sunshine and all the goodness of life concentrated into one tight place. “Oh God,” he said as an electric shudder traveled through his body.

The sounds Dana made and her quick breaths suggested the sensation was less than delicious for her. He slid back, and forward, deeper this time. She gasped and cried out again. 

“Dana?”

She said something in Gaelic, and in English, “Big. You are big.”

Mulder had not thought so, but he had never lined up and compared, either. “I can stop,” he promised, despite every instinct to the contrary. 

“No.” Dana took a slow breath. He stayed deep inside her, but remained still for a moment. “Do not stop.”

“It hurts?” He could finish quickly, if she needed him to. If she could stand it, though, he would rather prolong his pleasure.

“It hurts some. Just big. Not bad. Maybe even nice,” she promised.

“Yes,” he said in whole-hearted agreement, and began moving again. Slow, deep thrusts. “So nice.” If this was married life, he’d been doing it wrong. 

Her fingers slid through his hair again. He felt her exhale. Her hips began to move, raising and falling, making each stroke harder and deeper than he intended. He had never had a woman to that before.

“Do be reasonably still,” he amended.

“How still?” Dana seemed to want precise guidelines.

He stopped again, buried between her legs and with no room in his brain for specific perimeters. “I don’t know,” he told her breathlessly. "Still enough I do not accidentally hurt you. Somewhere between playing dead and having an epileptic fit?"

To his surprise, she laughed. And so did he.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus IV

 

Paracelsus V

*~*~*~*

Dear Melly, 

It is late. The fire burns low, crumbling into its last glowing orange and crimson embers. Dana and the baby are curled together in the center of our bed, and it comforts me to listen to their soft breathing. Everyone is asleep. Sometimes I think the whole world is asleep, and I am the only one awake and watchful. I look into the fire and wonder, does no one else see what I see?

Dana does, I think, to some degree. She told me she needs to see life as it is, not as what it might be in some perfect world - in the perfect world I create inside my mind. She has never looked away. I am turning back to look again, to take stock, to calculate the vast amount of water that has passed underneath the bridge.

Do you realize I am thirty-one years old? I would say I am much older, but the calendar is firm. Thirty-one. 

I wanted to keep you safe, Melly. To wrap my arms around you and protect you from the world, but I could not. I don't know if I ever did. How could I keep away a darkness stalking the soul from the inside? I did try, and it makes me angry others stood by and watched me try, and fail, and said nothing. We smile and we go about our pretty, polite routines, and inside we die.

Each choice I made seemed like the proper one at the time I made it. Duty, honor, country: those are the foundation on which my world is built. If I was a good boy and ate my vegetables, I got pie. I was a good boy, Melly. A good husband, and a good father, and son, and student, and businessman, and soldier, and all the things a man is expected to be - most before I was finished being a boy myself. There is a star beside my name in the Book of Dutiful, and yet I watched everyone I cared for being taken from me, one by one.

It made me angry. I am beginning to realize how angry.

Now, something selfish and insolent inside me snarls and says, “It is my turn.” Life has taken from me until I felt the wind blowing through me as if I was a sieve, so to Hell with the rules. I want this woman, Dana, because I want her: by my side, in my bed, across from me at the dinner table. I want this child, Emily, because I love her, because I held her when she was born and watched her take her first breath and pretended she was mine.'

My father was fond of Shakespeare, so I'll say it this way: What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

I am healing, and I do it by degrees. Each day, I roll my shoulders, shake my arms, and marvel at this new freedom to move as I please. It is heady, and it is frightening. I have spent years tiptoeing across the thin ice of normal, and Dana and her daughter draw me farther and farther out onto the frozen pond.

If I want to be truthful, I married Dana, in part, because she could not hurt me. I did not love her; I do not love her - not the way I loved you or Sarah. Over the years, I built a wall around me brick by brick, and I allowed no one inside. Yet Dana chips away at my wall, and I do not even notice her doing it. She sticks her pretty red head through the opening she has made and asks in her lilting accent, “Are you ready to come out, Mr. Mulder?” If I growl and snap, she answers, “All right; I will be outside waiting when you are ready.”

Everything I learned since I was sixteen tells me to hang back, to stay at the edge of the pond where it is safe. Safer. To make her to come to me instead of following her across the ice.

But I step forward, exposing myself, and I wait for the ice to crack. 

Mulder

*~*~*~*

The clouds slid silently across the moon, dense and black and promising a storm before morning, but the air was still. Not tranquil, but hesitant. Cautious. It was too warm for an overcoat and too cool for shirt sleeves: an indeterminate no-temperature for which no one can prepare. What should have been late autumn in Washington DC felt like spring. People squinted at the night sky, sucked at their teeth thoughtfully, and waited.

The Italianate mansion sat back from the street, partially concealed by manicured hedges and a collection of trees clinging to the last of their scarlet leaves. The Mulder’s was a new house build with old money, an exercise in clean lines and elegant simplicity. Mulder's taste tended toward Spartan, but Melly had a brief love affair with wrought iron, so metal balconies decorated each of the five large arched windows, and a wrought iron fence outlined the corner lot. Overall, the brick walls had a solid, placid look, like a lion settling down in the grass to watch the gazelle. 

In the yellow glow of the street lamp, Mulder helped Dana, who held the baby, out of the hired carriage. As she waited on the sidewalk, turning slowly to take in her surroundings, he paid the driver and collected their bags. The driver tipped his hat and clucked to the mare. The horse's hooves clopped hollowly away into the darkness, leaving them standing in front of Mulder's house. The twin gas lamps on the front porch twinkled, welcoming them home.

"This way," he said for lack of something more profound. Mulder unlatched the iron front gate, letting in swing wide open. They were halfway up the walk when it banged shut behind them, making him jump and shattering the genteel silence.

He paused on the porch as a feeling of dread covered him like a wool blanket. Sometimes, traveling was easier than arriving. Going had an optimistic, purposeful feel to it, whereas being required facing reality.

If he opened the door, the house would be empty. Sam would not come running to greet him, clutching sheet music and a horsehair bow. Mulder would not find Melly at her sewing, nor would he discover his father had dropped in to visit and decided to stay for dinner. A chapter of his life had ended. If he opened the front door, the page would turn and a new chapter would begin.

Dana held the sleeping baby against her shoulder and watched Mulder.

His old key still fit the lock. "This must be the place," he said to Dana. His hand shook as he turned the brass knob.

On the other side of the door, a dog's claws fidgeted impatiently against the wood floor, but Grace was too old to bother barking until he saw who it was.

"Hello, Grace," Mulder told the basset hound, who sniffed them. Grace turned away, disappointed, and waddled back toward his bed behind the kitchen stove. "Sam's dog," he explained to Dana, who nodded.

The dog paused, looking back as he heard the name. He sighed and disappeared to the back of the house. 

"Grace is a boy," Dana observed.

"Yes." He set the bags down. Mulder lacked the energy to explain the story of how seventy-five pounds of fat and wrinkles on three inches of legs came to be called 'Grace'.

As Mulder lit an oil lamp, the grandfather clock chimed eleven-thirty, and went back to its polite ticking, acting as if nothing had happened. A landscape Melly painted hung over the credenza. The canister on the floor beside it held two umbrellas, a walking stick - his father's - and a baseball bat - his son's. The servants wouldn't return until morning, so except for Mulder, Dana, and Emily, the only things alive in the house were memories. Far too many memories.

"Upstairs," he told Dana. She shifted the baby to one arm and gathered her skirt up to clear the steps. He raised the lamp and followed Dana like she knew the way.

When the architect showed them the plans a decade ago, the first thing Mulder noticed was the grand front staircase. It spiraled gracefully up to the landing, seeming to defy gravity. He had to stop sliding down the banister when Samuel was six, after Sam tried to imitate him and fell off, spraining his wrist.

For Melly, the highlight of the house was the ballroom on the second floor. “We could have a party,” she'd said excitedly, though they never had. The ballroom got used on rainy days if Samuel and Mulder played ball in there or pretended to ice-skate in their sock feet. The door sat ajar, and the big room remained dark and empty.

The door to Samuel's bedroom was closed. Mulder put his hand on the knob, not sure if he wanted to open it or not. 

"Are you all right, Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked, startling him. 

The lamp cast a glow over her face, making her blue eyes look bottomless, as though she saw directly into his soul. 

"I'm fine," he lied, and let go of the knob.

The housekeeper must have gotten his telegram. The nursery had been repainted, and a new cradle and rocking chair waited. He found drawers of clean diapers and blankets and baby clothes, more than one infant could ever manage to wear.

He left Dana in the nursery to get the baby settled in, and walked to the master bedroom at end of the hall. Mulder swallowed against the dry lump in his throat. The big bedroom held the same ornately carved bed, the same furniture, but everything else had been removed. Melly's clothes were gone from the wardrobe, and her perfume bottles absent from the dressing table. The room smelled like lemon oil and clean linens. Mulder could have been a bachelor returning home. No hairbrushes, no earbobs, no fashion magazines, no trace any woman had ever been there.

Mulder saw his housekeeper’s silent comment on his new marriage. He recognized the beautiful quilt covering the high mattress. Melly had finished the quilt before she died. Mulder's mother had the idea to drape it over her coffin like a flag on a soldier's casket. Before they lowered Melly’s coffin into the ground, the minister took the quilt off and handed it to Mulder, who'd dutifully carried it home, still certain he was about to wake up from his nightmare. 

He jerked the quilt off the bed, folded it, and put it away in a chest. He'd deal with Poppy in the morning. 

He heard soft footsteps in the hall. As the bedroom door opened, he remembered to expect Dana, not Melly. 

"Is she asleep?" Mulder asked in a perfunctory non-tone. "Is the nursery all right?"

"It is fine. This house is- It is grand."

"Good," he said, barely hearing her.

“You work at a newspaper?” Dana asked, and looked around the big bedroom.

“I own the newspaper.”

“Oh,” she said, seeming perplexed. “A large newspaper?”

“Not particularly.”

He stared at her, and sat on the sofa in the corner of the bedroom, beside the cold fireplace. A book he'd been reading before bed two Christmases ago was on the table, his place still marked. Normally, Melly's sewing basket would have been close by. He would read to her as she sewed, but the space was empty. Time had stopped in this house and erased one woman's life before it restarted.

"Are you all right, Mr. Mulder?" Dana stood in the center of the bedroom and waited like a bottle of wine presented for his inspection. 

"You have asked me and I have answered," he said curtly. "I am fine. How are you?" 

"There are ghosts here."

He couldn't tell if she spoke literally or figuratively, so he didn't respond. 

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No. You must be tired," he said, changing the subject. "It is late. Long past time for bed."

"Yes," she agreed.

She stepped closer, though still yards from where he sat. Seeming uncertain what to do, she began to unbutton the front of her dress.

"Dana..." he said softly, with no idea how he planned to finish his sentence. 

She stopped, her fingers holding the black silk fabric.

"I…" He focused on the empty bed behind her. He remembered the last time he shared it with Melly. It had been Christmas night. He was on leave from the cavalry, his chest knitting back together after the bayonet gash. Samuel was asleep. Melly had invited shyly and, carefully and gently, they'd conceived a child. Months later, after he'd found her in the bathtub, he carried Melissa to the bed and sat beside her, watching helplessly as her life bled away.

He noticed Dana again, who stood before him with her bodice unbuttoned. The pretty half-moons of her breasts showed above her corset.

He could not do this.

Washington offered fine hotels. He would take Dana and Emily to one and live there until he could have another house built. He’d start over. This dead room and this haunted house: he would padlock the front door shut and never reenter unless Samuel came home.

"Is this, is this your bedroom, Mr. Mulder?" she asked, breaking the silence. "Did you mean I should leave? Do you and your wife sleep separately?"

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "Please do not leave." Me, he added silently.

"All right."

"You are my wife, Dana," he reminded both of them. "No, you and I do not sleep separately."

She nodded. 

He looked at the pale hollow of her throat and at her lovely breasts again. “Take off your dress,” he said, telling rather than asking.

He was home. This was his new life. Reality. Not playing at lovemaking in their stateroom on the ship, or tiptoeing around something more than friendship on the plantation. Dana was his wife, and he, her husband. The only way he would cast the awful memories from this room was by replacing them with new ones. Mulder could make love to Dana and have children with her and grow old with her, and never go back to the man he was. 

He could love her, and she might love him in return.

She stripped off her black dress, and her petticoats and underclothes, down to her corset and pantalets. She stepped out of her shoes and rolled off her stockings. As she untied the laces at the back of her corset, Dana looked up at him.

Mulder had stood, but remained across the bedroom. He could love her, he thought again. The idea terrified him. 

Dana pulled pins out of her hair. It fell down her back in a cascade of auburn curls. “I am real, Mr. Mulder. You look at me as if I am not.”

“Are you? Real?”

“If you want me, come to me and find out,” she invited.

In a heartbeat, he stood in front of her with his mouth on hers and his hands cupping her face. He needed something warm and real to put his arms around to keep away the darkness. She felt warm and real. Beautiful and delicate and strong and imperfect. If he closed his eyes, he could convince himself she loved him - not because she did, but because he desperately needed her to.

He kissed her like he had beside the road, not hesitating or apologizing for wanting her. As she had that day, she put arms around his neck and parted her lips and let the rest of the ruined world fall away. He touched her breasts, her bottom, brought his hand between her legs and slipped a finger inside her. He stroked the knot of flesh at the top of her sex that made her whimper. He touched her where he pleased, as he pleased, and heard no objections.

Taking off Dana’s corset and pantalets was too much trouble, so he picked her up and set her on the edge of the bed. “Turn around,” he told her for the first time.

His boots hit the rug in two dull thumps, and he had his trousers and drawers unbuttoned in seconds. He knelt behind Dana, who waited on her hands and knees. He ran his hand over her bottom again and, pushing the cotton fabric aside, touched her sex. Her knees parted. He slid his fingers inside her a few times, and his cock. Inch by inch, he watched his body sink onto hers. He heard her gasp. He put his hands around her waist, holding her hips still. She spread her legs farther and, still on her knees, leaned down on her elbows rather than hands. He could penetrate fully with each stroke, hard and fast, deep enough to hurt her if he wanted. 

He discovered, within moments, he did not want to hurt her.

He withdrew and told her urgently, “Turn over.”

As soon as she was on her back, he was on top of her and inside her again. He could not kiss her mouth easily, but he felt Dana’s lips against his throat and her breath hot against his neck. 

He found her hand, interlaced their fingers, and held her hand against the pillows. “I want to fuck you hard,” he heard himself whisper to her huskily – words he never assembled in a sentence to anyone before, let alone a lady. 

Dana’s head nodded. Her free hand slid down the back of his trousers, guiding his hips as he thrust. Deep. Hard. Her hips rose to meet his. Over and over until every thought left his brain and his existence concentrated into a pool of tension inside him desperate for release. He heard Dana’s gasps and cries. Her hand remained on his hip, guiding and encouraging each stroke. Her fingernails pressed sharply into the cheek of his buttock.

He opened his eyes, ready to order her to look at him, but found she was. He kissed her. Her forehead, her temple, her hand, her wrist – anything within reach. His orgasm came. As soon as he could move again, he kissed her lips – long and deep and hard. 

In this end, his definition of ‘hard’ – and ‘fuck’ - did not live up to the standards of ravishment in the pornographic novels locked in his desk. He found the sweaty experience rapturous, but lay staring at the ceiling as Dana undressed, wondering what in the hell he would say to explain himself. 

She'd weighed the consequences and chosen to marry him, despite what anyone on the planet, including Mulder, would have advised her. He had promised to make love her as politely or passionately as she allowed. He supposed this constituted ‘passionately.’ He hoped so, at least; if there was still more to passion than he had discovered in the past week, he might not survive it.

“Will you sleep in your clothes, Mr. Mulder?” Dana asked. She returned to bed, nude, but having braided her hair and found a glass of water. He had remembered to tuck in and pull the front of his trousers together.

“For now.”

She didn’t question him. She did share her glass of water, and had him move so she could fold down the blanket and sheet. “Is ‘to fuck’ is the infinitive of a vulgar verb for lovemaking?” she asked casually.

He blinked. “Yes. It is very vulgar. Do not repeat it again.”

“I am sorry,” she said. “I wanted to be certain.”

She slid beneath the covers, paused, but rolled away from him as if to go to sleep.

“Dana,” he began hesitantly, as he lay down. The morning after they first made love on the ship, he wanted her again. She had asked him to go slowly; she was sore. Since – and there had been six times since – she did as he asked. She never made excuses or questioned him or even frowned. Once, she requested he take his forearm off her hair. “Do not tell me that was pleasant for you.”

“I am fine,” she assured him. He curled up against her back. She was warm and sweaty and soft, and smelled of lovemaking. “It is not unpleasant. Nor more than uncomfortable. Each time hurts less. You are good to me, and I want to be good to you.” She teased, “Do you want me to say I barely noticed, Mr. Mulder?”

His mouth twitched in amusement. “No.”

“Sore? No, I am not sore, Mr. Mulder,” she continued sarcastically. “Why would you think so? Try again with a French rolling pin, Mr. Mulder. My knees should be strangers to each other, and I prefer to stand rather than sit at the dinner table.”

He swatted her bare bottom with his hand, and she jumped and giggled. “You are bad.” He chuckled. “I worry am I becoming coarse, but you are wicked. For that, I may bend you over the dinner table sometime and enjoy the miracle of those split-crotch pantalets.”

She shifted against him, laying her head on his outstretched arm. Her head fitted nicely beneath his chin, and her round bottom against his pelvis. He rubbed the spot affectionately where he had spanked. She exhaled. “So long our dinner guests do not mind, please yourself.”

He put his other arm around her shoulders. “I am teasing,” he said, though the dinner table idea had taken root. “I have been a long time between bedmates, and we are newlyweds.” He hedged at the truth. “I know you want to please me, but do not let me hurt or humiliate you. I told you, you are my wife. Not a prostitute.”

She paused. “I do not think you know how to hurt or humiliate me, Mr. Mulder. I think-” She stopped. “Mr. Mulder, I am worried you will say I am wicked again if I tell you what I think. Or be angry with me.”

“I will not,” he promised. “Tell me.”

He felt her inhale. “I think you are a noble, passionate man who married young, and to a woman you had to love gently. Which you did. For years.” She paused again. “Mr. Mulder, I told you I would settle for being wanted. If you want me on my hands and knees, or on the dining room table, or on my knees beneath the table? Fine. If you want silk scarves and riding crops? Fine. It is not humiliating to please my husband, any more than you are humiliated to open doors for me or bring me the baby to nurse. You may play at being rough, but you are not. Nor is being curious and playful the same as being sinful or perverse. And to be cruel, to truly hurt and shame a woman? I do not think it is within your character.”

“Your offer is a slippery slope. I worry you are mistaken,” he admitted to the darkness.

She was either tired enough or certain enough she did not argue.

Silence lapsed so long it seemed rude to interrupt it. Mulder curled up to Dana tightly and kept his arms around her until she fell asleep. Without her clothing, she felt small next to him. She was correct; he played at being rough, but he had no desire to hurt or humiliate her. Dr. Waterston’s appetites must have differed. Dana knew far better how to please a man than Mulder knew how to please a woman.

He lay wondering what people might do in bed with silk scarves. 

He got up and checked on the baby. Stripped off his shirt and trousers. Found a washcloth and wiped off. He pulled Melly’s quilt out of the chest and lay down with it on the sofa, on the opposite side of the room from the bed where Dana slept. 

The clock downstairs struck midnight. Outside, the rain began.

After a few minutes, Dana got up, nude. She took his hand, left the quilt, and led Mulder back to their bed.

*~*~*~* 

Another dream of another time. In this one, a mournful whistle sounded, and two-dozen heads turned in unison.

"That's the train," Mulder informed Byers excitedly, in case John Byers didn’t recognize a train. Railroads had been around for decades; they weren't a novelty in the East. "The train, it's coming."

Byers looked less than impressed.

Most of the young men on the platform were university students going home for the break, but Mulder would stay at Harvard, hoping to get ahead on his studies. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could go home. Instead, his parents came for a visit. More importantly, his parents were bringing Samuel, who Mulder hadn't seen since the beginning of the term. 

The engine clacked past, and the coal car, and a series of red passenger cars smudged black with soot. Mulder loped through the steam, hurrying to catch up and craning to see a familiar face in any of the windows. 

Before the train came to a stop, his father leaned out from the steps of the first car. Bill Mulder held the railing with one hand and raised his walking stick with the other. "Fox!" he called, jumping down.

"Father!"

Mulder threw his arms around him, cherishing the scent of cherry pipe tobacco and brandy and home. Even at eighteen-years-old, even married with a family of his own, a son was allowed to miss his father.

"How was your trip?"

"Horrible. Your mother may never be the same. The engine hit four cows; you're going to hear about it."

The train groaned to a stop. The engine sighed with relief, and passengers spilled out of every opening. 

"Oh, Fox, it was horrible," his mother informed him as he lifted her down from the steps and set her safely on the platform. "The train hit four cows." She paused for breath and to kiss him on each cheek. "It was horrible. What an awful, belching, unnatural monstrosity. I don't think I'll ever be the same."

"I don't think my hand will ever be the same after your mother's death grip,” his father said. “She was certain we would derail at every curve."

"I couldn't help it, Fox. Your father said trains reach twenty miles an hour. I was sure every second was my last. It was horrible. I don't know how I'll survive the trip back." 

Mulder smiled. If his mother wanted to take the stagecoach instead of the train back, all she had to do was ask; she had a good time pretending to be afraid and his father had a good time comforting her. Even in a crowd of people, his parents connected, as though they shared some secret they didn’t tell the rest of the world. His father offered his arm and his mother took it, resting her gloved hand lightly on the fine wool fabric of his overcoat.

"Twenty miles an hour," Mulder echoed dutifully. He knew trains could go much faster and his father hadn't told her. "How terrifying." 

Senator Mulder winked at his son, and reached over to rumple his hair as though he was still seven. Mulder grinned and submitted, stooping. He stood several inches taller than his father. 

"Mother, you look beautiful. Is this a new dress?"

She answered it was, and his father said it cost millions of silk worms their lives before Mulder stopped listening. 

A light-skinned Negro woman had stepped out of the train car. She carried a carpetbag in her hand and a little boy on her hip. Her hair was covered with a white kerchief, and the steam made her calico dress flutter, showing the outline of her legs. Her father's Cherokee heritage showed in her face, as it showed in Melly's. It gave her a proud, exotic air and caused a murmur among the well-bred men on the platform.

If anyone looked closely, the child she carried resemblance her, but few people looked closely. It was a regrettable, yet unforgivable error of birth: Melly and Sarah's mother had been Jack Kavanaugh's wife; hers was his slave.

"That's one pretty nig-" a young man near Mulder said before he realized he wasn't in South Carolina. He amended, "colored girl." 

"That's my boy," Mulder shouted, and reached up to take Samuel from her. "My baby boy," he announced victoriously. He held the toddler high in the air before lowering him and hugging him tightly, afraid he might get away. Mulder closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of his son. "Oh, my Sam. How's my Sammy? Was he good on the train, Poppy?" 

"He did fine, sir," she answered, keeping her eyes down. Another of the Mulders' servants took the carpetbag, and Sam's nurse disappeared back into the train car. 

"Da-dee, Da-dee, Da-dee," Samuel chanted, pounding his fist against Mulder's chest. 

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Mulder answered, spinning him around so he squealed. "My Sammy boy! You're so big, baby boy." 

The crowd of young men on the platform grinned indulgently, but fell silent.

"Surprise, Fox," his mother murmured. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

Mulder looked up, curious. Another woman had exited the train car, her pink dress fluttering. 

Behind him, he heard Byers whisper "My God." His roommate had seen pictures of Melissa, but he'd never seen her in the flesh. Melissa had been away, ill, so no one at school had. Byers had dubbed her Mulder's “phantom wife,” much mentioned but never glimpsed, and said he'd begun to doubt her existence. 

Melissa hesitated on the metal steps. Spotting Mulder, she smiled uncertainly. He smiled back, relieved. She was Melly again, instead of the tearful, erratic stranger who'd taken her place after the baby came. Her skirt swayed, showing her petticoats and the tops of her dainty boots as she took one step down, holding tightly to the railing. 

The crowd edged closer to the train, making Melly shrink back.

"Mah-mee," Samuel announced, pointing to and naming her the way he'd point and announce 'dog' or 'cat.' 

"This wasn't my idea, Fox." Bill Mulder raised his hands to declare his innocence. "The doctors think it's too much excitement for her and I agree, but she wanted to come for your birthday. She and your mother have been conspiring."

"Oh, you think it's too much excitement to eat a peach, you old fuddy-duddy. Melissa's been fine on the train, haven't you, dear?" his mother responded. Melly nodded. She still watched Mulder from underneath her eyelashes. People tended to call Melly “dear” a lot, and it would never have dawned on her to object. "She misses Fox, and it's not too much excitement at all. Stand up straight, dear; don't slouch," she reminded her. Melly obediently squared her shoulders. 

"Still watch her 'round the baby," Poppy reminded him softly, and Mulder nodded. He smiled, shifted Samuel to his hip, and went to kiss his wife's cheek. 

Another murmur swept on the platform as they embraced chastely. His classmates knew Mulder was married - an oddity for their age and station - but he'd become a much-envied young man. At eighteen, he had what they dreamed of: a healthy son, a beautiful wife, wealthy, loving parents, and nothing but great prospects. Mulder seemed ahead of the game. His future was as set as the stone walls of Harvard.

Years later, when John Byers had a family of his own, Mulder asked him if life ever seemed too tight, like a suit cut a quarter-inch too snug. Although it looked fine and was perfectly wearable, it felt confining, never allowing him to completely relax. Life was fine, as long as he didn't want to take a deep breath.

When Mulder and Byers were twenty-three, he'd asked, after a few glasses of wine, if Byers ever felt that way. His wife Susanne had refilled their goblets, and they sat in the parlor, watching Byers' young daughters take their first steps.

Byers had said no. Mulder remembered him shaking his head and not seeming to understand. Despite the hardships Fate had thrown at Byers, he was delighted with his young family and little home and lot in life. Susanne was not the breathtaking beauty Melissa was, and she never gave John Byers a son – though, watching them at home together, Mulder suspected they tried frequently. Byers never moved out of the little house he bought with the last of his late parents’ life insurance money, and he never left his first job as editor at Mulder’s newspaper. 

Mulder never asked again.

*~*~*~*

At its conception in the year Caesar first noticed Cleopatra, it was a brilliant system, but by 1582 the faulty Julian calendar had accumulated ten extra days, so March 21st fell on March 31st. To correct this, the Gregorian system was developed, and in October 1582, Pope Gregory XIII moved everyone two hundred and forty hours backward and started over. Medieval Popes must have been able to roll back the sun. 

Those hours became the lost time, the violet-black, surreal no-time between the last bit of night and the first breath of morning. Between lovers, between a down mattress and soft blankets, between strong arms and yielding flesh, the universe cast down its eyes demurely and looked away. Time held its breath, denying anything had happened - although it had. 

Mulder told Dana through chattering teeth, "She's still asleep," as he returned from checking on the baby. He set the lamp on the bedside table and slid beneath the covers. "Someone should light a fire in here. Maybe I'm used to Georgia, but it's freezing."

As if half awake, Dana moved toward him, thoughtfully bringing all the heat in the bed with her. To get him to stop shivering, she put her arms around him and fitted her body against his. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her hair tickled his nose. He stroked her bare backside as he lay with her. Her body felt soft and lazy. And warm. Some secret places warmer than others. A pleasant tingling gathered in his groin.

"Are you awake?" he asked, and was 'um-hummed' from the back of her throat. Her breasts were full, and he weighed one in his hand. He drew his thumb across the erect nipple. “I want you,” he told her in the lamplight. “Before I must leave for work. Lie back.”

Dana shifted obligingly to her back without opening her eyes. She purred as he kissed down her neck, across her collarbone, and to her breast. The faint yellow lamplight played across her ivory skin. Mulder reached up, lacing his fingers through hers, while her other hand rested on the back of his head.

She winced and opened her eyes as he touched between her legs. She felt slick, though, and inviting. She smelled sour and salty – of her sweat and his. He slipped his fingers into her sex. She gasped and shifted her hips back.

He wasn't a moron, nor as naïve as Dana seemed to think. Yes, sexual intercourse was uncomfortable for women, but he knew some women enjoyed being close to a man: touching, kissing, caressing. Sarah had, as far as their teenage fumbling had gone. Mulder’s parents had been affectionate toward each other. Dana either enjoyed being close, or she was good enough at pretending to convince him - though it wasn't hard to fool a man who desperately wanted to be fooled.

He wondered if he could get Dana to enjoy intercourse more – the way he had read some women did. Doubtful, he supposed. If a man decided to put his prick in any orifice of Mulder’s body, Mulder would want him to remove it as quickly as possible.

He rubbed his slick finger in little circles over her clitoris, gauging her response. Dana seemed pained. He watched her grimace as he slid his index and middle finger in and out of her sex. He was not sure what the female orgasm looked like – but not like a man poured salt into her most private of wounds. 

“I am sore, Mr. Mulder,” Dana said, with her hand clutching the sheet beneath her. “Please-”

“I will be careful.” He felt sore himself, but erect and impatient beneath his drawers. “And quick, if you want.”

“Would you like something else?” She started to sit up.

“No, this is fine. If you turn over, I am more likely to forget myself.” 

Giving up on her pleasure, he pushed his drawers down and lay down on top of her. He came to her under the guise of sex, but in truth, if he could stay in bed with her in his arms, he might be able to face the coming day. Let troubles come to him rather than going out to meet them.

“Mr. Mulder-”

"I like being close to you," he whispered to her. 'I love you' was a betrayal and 'Thank you' seemed pitiful, so he told her, "I like this. I do. I've missed you."

"You have missed me?" She rolled her thumbs along the lower vertebrae of his spine and opened her legs. “It had been at least four hours, Mr. Mulder, and I have been asleep right beside you. How have you missed me?”

He wasn't sure why he'd said that. He wasn't inclined to stop and think about it, so he answered, "Oh, it's a long walk to the nursery and back."

He pressed his erection against her and closed his eyes, savoring the prospect of lovemaking before he began a long, tense day. 

"Ouch,” she said unhappily, and asked, “Does a two-minute trip to the nursery do this to you?" 

Mulder stopped and pushed back from her. "No," he said icily. "It is not. How dare you!"

She stared at him with her forehead crinkled. She was nude, and her chest and neck reddened from the stubble on his face.

"I'm going to work," he decided, sitting up. His erection was uncomfortable, but he would live. "The housekeeper is Poppy. She's here by six. She'll see to anything you and Emily need and she'll be polite about it, or I'll have her head." He paused. “Do not ever say that again.”

"I do not understand. What did I say? Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry," he lied, his words clipped. He got as far as the edge of the bed before he exploded, "How dare you! How dare you think I would-" He searched for the right words. "Harm Emily."

“Harm Emily?” The bed shifted as Dana sat up. She tried to touch him. He jerked away. "I did not say that."

"You did. You said I had been to the nursery and come back wanting you.”

"Yes. You were gone two minutes and returned saying you missed me. How can you miss me in two minutes? How can you not be spent from last night? I am beginning to wonder about your preternatural libido and stamina, Mr. Mulder, but I was being silly. Maybe I said it wrong. Or misunderstood you. What do you mean 'harm Emily?' You care for Emily. You ask me a hundred times a day if I think she is all right. I see you with her. I hear you call her 'Emmy' and say you are 'Daddy.' I think you pretend she is your daughter. The baby Melissa carried. Why would you harm her? I do not understand."

He exhaled, knowing he overreacted. "No, of course I would never hurt her." 

"Please tell me what is wrong or I have done." 

For a heartbeat, he thought about it, and for the first time since before Samuel was born, he almost told someone the truth.

Still sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to her, he answered, "Melly had a sister named 'Sarah.' That was what our daughter would have been called. I just call Emily 'Emmy.' I will stop, if you like."

Dana succeeded in putting one hand, and both, on his bare back.

"Sarah died," Mulder added after an uncomfortable pause. "Melly's older sister Sarah. She died. We were fifteen and Melly was fourteen. Sarah was my friend."

"I am sorry."

It took several tries before he continued. "Sarah was my fiancée, Dana. We grew up together, our fathers served in Congress together, and it was one of those 'everyone expected it' situations. Except I loved her, and I know she loved me."

"How did she die?"

He wet his lips. "They say, of cholera. Which is untrue." 

"How did she die, Mr. Mulder?"

"She miscarried. Whether accidentally or purposely, I will never know. Hemorrhaged. There was an infection..."

"I am sorry," she repeated in the same soft voice, still stroking his bare shoulders. “How horrible.”

He listened to the rain drumming on the roof above them.

"Did you know about the baby?" she asked cautiously.

"No. Not until it was too late. She must have known, but she was afraid to tell me. I would have married her. I saw her the day before, and she didn’t tell me." He shifted and rearranged his hands on the crumpled sheet. "I did know about Samuel, though. Before Melly and I married."

"Oh," she said.

“So there it is. The truth. I am not as noble as you thought.”

“That is not a rare circumstance, Mr. Mulder. Not where I come from,” she told him. “That is young for a man to be married, but if you loved the girl and wanted the child? Some people would say a small sin gave way to a great blessing.”

"This is not where you come from. People here say many things, Dana. I'm sure they'll relish saying them to you." 

He hung his head, unwilling to look at her. He examined his bare feet as they dangled a few inches above the rug. He felt cold again. As he sat, gooseflesh formed on his shoulders and arms, and the dark hair rose protectively.

“Would you take back your son?” she asked. Before he could say no, she continued, “No. No more than I would take back my daughter. Or moving to Savannah, or meeting you. You are an idealist, Mr. Mulder, but sometimes circumstances are not ideal. Forgive yourself for being fallible.”

He looked back at her. She sat on the mattress with her hair in a pretty disarray, with her breasts swollen, and not wearing a stitch. “You are wise, for a woman with no secrets.”

“Oh, I have secrets,” she assured him. “Will you come back to bed?"

"It's past five. I'm usually up by five. I won't go back to sleep."

"I did not ask you to go back to sleep. I asked you to come back to bed."

"But I won't sleep," he insisted.

"I am not asking you to sleep, Mr. Mulder."

"Oh." The tips of his ears warmed as he took her meaning. "Oh. You want me?”

“To come back to bed, yes. And, if you like, lay back, and let me show you how we resolve matters when you have been rough and I am sore.”

“I lay back?” he echoed. “What happens?”

“Good things.” She drummed her fingers against the mattress. “Or I can lay back, and you can be very, very gentle.”

“May I have both?”

She nodded, and he slipped back beneath the warm covers and into another few minutes of no-time, forgetting himself and the world outside their bed.

*~*~*~*

He realized, after he wrote the note, he'd never seen Dana read anything. She enjoyed him reading aloud to her, but it possible, as a woman, she couldn't read well. And it wasn't likely she had any acquaintance the poem, published in 1860 and not widely known before the war.

Mulder initialed it, regardless. If she didn't know the verse, she wouldn't know he misquoted. Also, merely being literate did not guarantee she could decipher his handwriting.

'Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I have looked upon you. You must be she I was seeking. You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my beard, breast, and hands in return. I will see to it I do not lose you. M.' 

He looked at the slip of paper, hesitating. Mulder had never written a love letter, and bastardizing Walt Whitman wasn't the way to start. Lust wasn't love, and he'd rather Dana read Mark Twain's stories if she wanted something to laugh at.

Mulder picked up the pencil again and wrote across the bottom of the page, 'Sleep well. I am going to the newspaper. I will see you and Emmy at noon. The housekeeper's name is Poppy. She will see to anything you need. Make yourself at home. M.'

He tore off the top half, tucked the original note in his coat pocket, and propped the bottom of the page against the lamp for Dana to find once she woke. He fenced Emily in beside her with heavy pillows so the baby couldn't roll off the bed, kissed them both, and blew out the lamp as he left. 

*~*~*~*

The streetcar from the White House down Pennsylvania Avenue could have him at work in ten minutes, but Mulder walked as he tried to recapture the rhythm and flow of the city he called home. He whistled to himself.

Wagons of produce rolled past, bound for Central Market, wheels splashing over the cobblestones. Shopkeepers' brooms whooshed over wet sidewalks, clearing the way for the first patrons to arrive. In the cafes, gossip hummed over cups of coffee. Raindrops slipped from the edge of his umbrella and horse-drawn trolleys squealed past as Washington woke.

Samuel was Mulder’s first child, but The Evening Star was his second, born a few years later, to his own father's dismay. Bill Mulder tried to dissuade Mulder from buying the business, and to persuade him to adopt a more proper, hands-off approach to the newspaper trade. Gentlemen owned businesses; they didn't run them. To that end, Mulder invested in several publishing houses - and railroads and telegraphs and other companies - and tallied his quarterly profits in a most genteel manner. The Evening Star, however... Poppy said he shouldn't wear suits to work; he ruined them. Mulder started the day with his collar buttoned, his hair combed back, and his waistcoat on, and ended it with his sleeves rolled up and his collar and waistcoat off, cursing and getting ink stains on his trousers as he climbed inside one of the huge presses to fix it.

The newspaper was his passion and his refuge. In a society clothed in fine linen and white lies, Mulder printed the truth. He might not be able to right the wrong, but he could expose it. Politics, women's suffrage, slavery, the war: regardless of his views, The Evening Star welcomed debate while most newspapers couldn't find both sides of a coin. Avoiding the rumor-mongering filling his competition's pages, he challenged hypocrisy, he exposed the liars and the thieves - and he signed his name, regardless of the consequences.

His father gave up trying to dissuade him, and regarded his son's passion for newsprint as an eccentric hobby - like growing orchids or building tiny ships in bottles. Until Senator Mulder died, if asked profession his son chose, his father took a deep draw of cherry tobacco smoke from his pipe and said, 'Fox is an idealist.'

The building was still quiet as Mulder arrived. It was The Washington 'Evening' Star; the presses would run after lunch. In the morning, reporters wrote copy, telegraph operators on the top floor scanned the ticker-tape for Associated Press stories, and the editors laid out the pages. Once the people in Byers' part of the building decided what to print, it went to Frohike's men to print it. To set the type, prime the machines, feed the rolls of paper into the presses, and to cut and fold, by hand, a quarter-million newspapers each afternoon, six afternoons a week. 

John Byers greeted Mulder with a smile and a warm handshake that would have turned into a hug if Mulder hadn't pulled back. 

"How are you?" 

"I'm glad to be back," Mulder answered. He slid into the old chair behind his desk. Someone had emptied the waste bin and cleared away the coffee cups, but unfortunately left the clutter. Once things made it to his desk, they tended to stay there until they grew legs and escaped or crumbled to dust.

"I'm sorry I wasn't at the, at the funeral,” Byers said. “I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. About Melissa. And your father. I didn't know until Susanne wrote to me. I am so sorry."

Mulder straightened a stack of papers he'd left out four years ago. "Thank you," he said formally.

"Susanne spoke with Poppy last week at the market. She said you've remarried and have a new baby. Congratulations. Susanne and I would like to have you and your wife join us for dinner."

"Again, thank you. Another night. I'd like to let her get settled in."

Byers cleared his throat, uncomfortable. They were old friends, but different men than before the war. The years of fighting and blood and loss hadn't broken them, but they each changed - altered enough their friendship no longer fit as it once did.

"Is there any news about Samuel?" Byers asked.

Mulder looked up. "No. Not yet."

"Many soldiers are still making their way home. More men return every day."

Samuel wasn't a farmer's son who had to walk home coatless and barefooted. All he needed to do was make his way to any government office and say he was the late Senator Mulder's grandson. Byers knew as well as Mulder.

His editor-in-chief shifted his feet. "Anyway, it's good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," Mulder responded honestly. 

Byers nodded. "Is there anything you need? The books? Do you want to look at the accounts?"

"I think... I think I need to get settled in again. It feels- I don’t know.”

His office felt the same as his bedroom had the night before. Like a set awaiting the performer’s return. Except his role was played by a different actor. Mulder half-expected someone to notice and tell him to leave because he didn't belong there. Months ago, he was knee-deep in blood, killing men and boys he had no qualm with so they wouldn't kill him first. At least at home, he had Dana and Emily. At work, he wore his suit again and sat at his desk, like a few days had passed. To him, eons must have passed, and the life he returned to belonged to a stranger.

"It gets better," Byers assured him. "I returned home to my wife, my children and... It does get better."

Mulder nodded, and opened a desk drawer, avoiding eye contact. 

"I'll let you get settled back in," Byers said and closed Mulder's office door as he left.

Once Byers’ footsteps faded, Mulder unlocked and opened a bottom drawer. Frohike hadn’t managed to pick the lock; the drawer still contained a collection of pornographic books, drawings, photographs, and tintypes Mulder remembered finding riveting before the war. He remembered arriving early to work and staying late to look at or read them. Alone. With his office door locked and a handkerchief close by. The images of nude, beautiful women had once been a refuge and a release. Mulder thumbed through the familiar pictures and remembered Dana touching him an hour ago. At her invitation. The feel of her hand, the scent of her skin. How her back arched and thighs trembled as he entered her, and how her breath and lips felt against his neck. How she whispered in his ear for him to hurry, but not stop. 

The pornographic pictures no longer seemed as captivating. Appealing in a pinch, yes – but buying stale bread when he had cake at home. “Love sought is good,” Bill Mulder had said, quoting Shakespeare, “but love given unsought: better.”

Mulder put the old photographs and marriage manuals and novels away, locked the drawer, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work.

*~*~*~* 

He made three trips to the vast AP telegraph room on fourth floor and two to the reporters' desks on the third floor. He watched Frohike supervising the typesetters piecing together the evening's front page, and followed Byers around like a shadow for an hour before Mulder realized why he was so restless. As much as he enjoyed having dusty newsprint under his fingers again and the acrid scent of hot metal and ink around him, he found himself eyeing the clock as it edged toward lunchtime.

In the last two weeks, he hadn't been away from Emily and Dana for more than a few minutes. He missed them.

"Why don't you go home?" Melvin Frohike asked, as Mulder stared over his shoulder again. Frohike had run the mechanics of a newspaper longer than Mulder had been on this Earth, and didn't need a supervisor. "You're worse than a bitch without her puppies. Have lunch, check on the new wife and baby, and come back and accomplish something."

"Do you want to come along?” Mulder asked on impulse. “Meet Dana and Emily?"

Mulder noticed covert glances between the typesetters and engravers. Anyone who thought women the worst gossips had never worked in a building of newsmen. The baby was a girl and named Dana or Emily. By two o'clock, everyone who was anyone in DC would know. He’d received somber congratulations all morning, but no one had the nerve to ask him details. Most of the men, like Byers, had been at war when Melly and Bill Mulder died, and found it awkward paying condolences in one breath and asking after Mulder’s new wife and baby in the next.

Frohike held up stubby fingers stained black with ink. "I'd love to come, but I have to look my best if I'm gonna to meet a pretty lady."

"You mean you know some way to improve on this stunning façade?"

"Everything's under control here. Go home, Mulder," Byers agreed. He brought in another stack of handwritten stories for Frohike's men to translate into print. The deadline for articles was eleven, but Byers forever rushed downstairs with “just one more” at eleven-fifteen.

"I'm going home for lunch," Mulder decided, and rolled down his sleeves.

"What an original, brilliant idea." Frohike scowled at Byers and snatched the new articles. "Stunning façade," Frohike muttered.

*~*~*~*

Mulder looked around the kitchen nervously. He almost went back outside to make sure he had the right address.

Lunch was nearly ready; the old cook offered Mulder a taste from a wooden spoon and a welcome peck on the cheek as he passed. Loaves of bread came out of the oven; their mouth-watering aroma permeated the air. The long dining room table was set for two, with a vase of flowers decorating the center. The fireplace crackled, and a maid he didn't recognize smiled and resumed polishing the silver. The little maid screwed up her face in concentration. 

This is how it feels like to come home to normalcy, Mulder thought, but felt guilty. No crisis, no tears. He came home for lunch and found lunch.

He discovered Dana in the nursery rocking Emily, and paused in the doorway to watch them. Samuel was five when Mulder built the house, so the nursery had been an optimistic afterthought consisting of the architect crossing out 'bedroom' and writing in 'nursery' on the blueprints. Until Melissa become pregnant two Christmases ago and come down with decorating fever, it sat empty - a reminder of things that weren't.

"Hello," he said quietly. 

Dana looked up. "Hello," she whispered back, smiling. "She's asleep. How was your work?"

"It was fine. Perhaps I will take you to my office, later." He sat on the window seat with his back to the steamy window. Outside, the storm passed, sounding like it rained out of habit rather than malice. "How are you? Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine. I keep getting lost in this house."

"Did Poppy come today?" he ventured. "I didn't see her downstairs."

"I sent her home. She was upset, I think."

Mulder sighed. "I'll deal with her. I'm sorry, Dana. I should have warned you. Poppy is - She was Samuel's nurse and she's protective of us, but I didn't expect her to be rude. She’s high-strung, but I won't have that."

"She was civil. She took care of Emily: changed her, bathed her. She is good with babies. I had the feeling I was being - oh, what is the word when you decide how much a thing is worth?"

"Appraised?"

"Yes. I was appraised this morning. She asked if your son went to work with you. I said he had not, and she was confused. Poppy thought you returned home because you found Samuel."

"Oh no." He hadn't dreamed Poppy would interpret his telegram to mean that.

"She has his room ready," Dana continued. "I told her you had not found Samuel, and she asked if she should put his things away, like she put Melissa's things away. I told her not to. To wait. You were still looking for him. Was that all right?"

He leaned forward and kissed her warm lips. "Perfect."

*~*~*~*

After lunch, he trailed his fingers over the ivory keys, aimlessly striking a few chords. The piano remained in tune, but Melly and Samuel were the performers. Mulder's musical gifts best suited being in the audience.

This was his favorite room. His books lined the walls, so they called it the library, although Mulder usually got relegated to the desk or the comfortable chair in the corner. The piano had been his present to Melissa, but the other instruments were Samuel's. If it had strings or keys, Sam could play it. What begin as violin and piano lessons for a five-year-old moved on to cello and guitar and - to his music tutor's horror - banjo and harmonica. Sam even had an accordion Mulder agreed to in some fit of overindulgent insanity. 

Two wooden easels stood near the windows where they could catch the morning sun. One - Melly's – was empty, and her boxes of oil paints and brushes had been removed. A few of her paintings still hung on the walls, but the unfinished ones had been stored away somewhere. Like the quilt on the bed the night before, her paint-splattered easel had 'accidentally' been left behind like skeletal remains.

"Did Melissa draw this as well?" Dana asked as she paused in front of the other easel. 

The pad bore a charcoal sketch of a man, a teenage boy, and a dog in the woods. Snow covered the ground and blanketed the tree branches, pristine except for their footprints. The man carried a rifle, and the basset hound loped ahead of them in pursuit of a rabbit. The dog’s long ears flew and his tongue lolled happily.

"No, Samuel." Mulder sip from his wineglass. "Melly liked oils; Sam likes charcoal or ink. That's Sam, my father, and Grace hunting."

"I do not know art, but this seems excellent. I can feel the chill in the air, and their excitement. It is as if I was there."

Mulder set his glass on a table and joined her at the window.

"Sam has a gift. He draws what he sees, like he plays whatever he hears. We've published some of his sketches, and there are probably more." Mulder folded down the sheets of paper flipped over the top of the easel. "Poppy." He showed Dana the sketch of a tall, pretty, pregnant mulatto woman standing on the back porch with a basket of laundry. Behind her, on the clothesline, rows of sheets billowed in the wind.

He flipped again, and grinned. 

"Me." A man in an officer's uniform sat astride a horse, looking heroic. The picture was drawn from the perspective of a small child, making the rider seem god-like. "Dramatic, but me."

He folded another sheet down. His grin went from indulgent to wistful. On the easel, a woman in a nightgown waited at the window where Mulder and Dana now stood. Her dark hair was down, falling over her shoulders. In the sketch, one hand rested on her pregnant belly as she stared through the glass, frightened and watching for her husband to come home. 

"Melly." His chest ached and his throat felt tight. "That's- I didn't know this was-” He inhaled slowly. “I've shown you photographs, but this looks more like her. That's Melly, before... The day before she died. Sam told me he drew this for me.” He added, “That's Sarah," and rubbed his fingertip over the figure's belly, smudging the charcoal lines.

"I did not realize she was so far along."

"Seven months." Mulder answered, but looked away from the drawing. 

"She was very beautiful."

"Yes, she was."

"Mr. Mulder..." she began soothingly.

"Melly's been gone for fifteen months. The wound is not as raw as it was. I love her and I miss her, but what pains me is knowing Samuel drew this. I know what he was thinking, feeling as he sketched her. As he waited for me to come home.” He said hoarsely, “I miss him so much."

"I know you do."

Dana put her head on his chest and her arms around his waist, steadying him. For Mulder, returning home hadn’t required surviving a single, horrific pain, as he’d expected, but enduring a seemingly endless series of tiny, random, wounds. One onslaught on his heart, he could steel himself and bear. Instead, every hour brought another unexpected little wound. A series of minor scratches, compared to some of his past injuries. If given a choice, though, he’d prefer to be beaten to a pulp once, and by some painful memory with the decency to announce itself beforehand. 

Since the universe remained indifferent to his preference, Mulder closed his eyes and stood with his chin nestled on top of Dana’s head. 

As the ache began to lessen, someone nearby cleared her throat. 

Mulder glanced up, let go of Dana, and stepped back. A tall, pretty mulatto woman stood in the doorway, holding a baby on her hip. 

"Poppy. Hello."

He might have hugged her, or at least shaken her hand, had Dana not been there. Mulder didn't want to give Dana the wrong idea, and regardless, Poppy kept her distance. She watched Dana the way one sized up fellow bidders at the auction.

"It's not right, me staying home," Poppy answered tersely. She shifted the toddler to her other hip. "I belong here."

She wore her work uniform: a black dress, a starched white apron, and a white kerchief covering her black hair. She was a striking woman in her mid-thirties, an octoroon, with African, Indian, and mostly white blood. She was tall, with high cheekbones, skin the color of cafe au lait, and dark,  
vigilant eyes. An ex-slave, she was a competent and loyal housekeeper, but she lacked the dignity and effortless efficiency most senior house servants possessed. Rather, Poppy had a high-strung intensity, as though she was at the edge of a storm. Like Waterston's mistress, Dori, Poppy's mother had been the Haitian slave mistress of a white plantation owner. The greatest Voodoo priestess of her time, at least according to Poppy.

Mulder responded, "Dana told me there was a misunderstanding. About Sam."

She shook her head brusquely. "There anything I can get you, sir?"

Poppy once caught him perched on his parents' dining room table shrieking like a girl and about to wet his trousers because of a spider on the floor. He'd been five, and it had been a big spider. Poppy, seven, had joined him, and also refused to come down until Sarah smashed the spider with her shoe and rescued them. Needless to say, Mulder was only 'sir' in public.

"No. We were looking at some of Sam's drawings. Did you know he'd sketched you?"

"No. Sir. I did not, sir. Can I have my girl here?" She gestured to the light-skinned, dark-haired toddler she carried. "For today. There ain't nobody to look after her, and she won't be no trouble." 

"You may," Dana answered. "For today."

Poppy waited for Mulder to speak.

Mulder looked at the pretty little girl, and his cheat hurt again. He felt another thread pulled from the threadbare fabric inside him. She should have been his daughter, but wasn't.

"What's her name?" he asked.

"I been calling her Sadie," Poppy responded.

He nodded. "That's a nice name."

She shifted the toddler again.

"It's fine, Poppy," he said. "You know me better than that."

Poppy nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Good to have you home again. Congratulations about your daughter. Ring if you need me.” In afterthought, she added, “Ma'am.”

Once Mulder and Dana were alone again in the library, Dana asked, "Is she married?" 

"No, she isn't married," Mulder answered. "She was Sam's nurse, Dana. She took care of Melly, and she been loyal to us. I'm not dismissing her for making a mistake."

"No, of course. I understand." Dana’s forehead wrinkled. "How old is her daughter?"

"Fifteen months."

"Oh."

He said quickly, "I'm not the father."

"I had not considered you might be," Dana said thoughtfully. "She thinks Emily is your daughter, though."

"Yes. Well, Poppy is Melissa and Sarah's half-sister, so she thinks Emily is her half-niece by marriage." 

More creases appeared between Dana's eyebrows as she tried to follow the tangled genealogy. 

"Poppy's daughter was born the night Melly died. That's where Poppy was and why she thought I might not want to see her child. I don't care if she brings the baby to work, and she knows I wouldn't dismiss her - not for anything short of murder." Mulder clapped his hands together, which sounded overly loud in the quiet library. "Well, I should get back to work. Have a nice afternoon."

*~*~*~* 

Mulder was back in his office by twelve-thirty, and out the door again as soon as the last edition rolled off the presses at four.

He walked home, but turned a block too soon and entered through the back gate rather than the front. After a stop at the stable and a quick rummage through the old Negro groom’s wardrobe, Mulder drove the buggy around the corner and up the gravel drive to the front of his house.

Remaining in the seat, he called to the maid in a bad cockney accent, "I'm looking for the lady of the house." Mulder wore the groom’s livery and kept his head down, hiding under the top hat he’d borrowed. 

Luckily, the pretty little maid who answered the front door was the same one polishing the silver earlier, and she didn't recognize him. And, though it didn't speak well of her powers of observation, she didn't recognize her employer's horses and buggy, either. 

"Of course, sir."

Mulder struggled not to laugh. He tightened the reins as Athos and Porthos began to fidget, as if knowing something was afoot.

A minute later, Dana appeared, in the process of taking off a white apron and dusting flour from her hands. "Yes, sir?" she answered politely. "How can I help you?"

"Are you the lady of the house?" he asked, barely understandable.

"I suppose I am. How can I help you?"

"Is your husband here?"

"He is at his office. Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

"Love, I can think of a great many things I would like you to do for me.” 

“Sir, you forget yourself,” Dana cautioned him icily. 

“Make a man out of me, love, and I’ll not soon forget it.”

She gaped until he raised his head, grinning at her.

"Mr. Mulder? Do not dare call me wicked! You are awful."

He took off the hat and jacket, and leaned down to offer his hand. “Climb in.”

"Dinner-"

"You asked about DC. I thought you'd like to see the city since the rain's stopped. Is Emily all right for a moment?"

“She should be.” Bringing her apron, Dana climbed up and settled in. She covered her skirt with the lap blanket. 

Aside from being the seat of democracy, Washington DC boasted the finest collection of potholes and whorehouses in the nation. A week seldom passed without a body found floating in the canal or a political scandal hitting the front page. If a man wanted a case of the French Pox or to sell a load of junk railroad bonds, DC was the place. Mulder saw it for what it was - the powerful center of a government struggling to rebuild itself - but he tried not to jade Dana's introduction to her new home.

"The White House," he told her as they reached Pennsylvania and turned right down the broad, muddy street. "Where the President lives," he added as they passed, thinking she might not know. "There used to be a good swimming hole on the south side until the Army started using it to pasture cows during the war." 

He was glad he made time to take her for a ride. Dana twisted from side to side to see, peppering him with a dozen questions per block. 

Mulder showed her the new Treasury Building, and made a side trip, remembering she'd liked a ghost story they heard during their honeymoon. Supposedly, as the ship was built, a hapless iron-worker got trapped between the dual hulls and, in the interest of economy, left there. The crewmen swore they still heard the worker tapping with his hammer to be let out. On a whim, he and Dana took a lantern and investigated, to no avail.

"Here’s the Octagon house." Mulder slowed the horses. "President James Madison lived there. It has six sides, but eight angles, hence 'octagon.' Some say it's haunted. There's a dead Colonel who rings bells and, sometimes, the ghost of a murdered slave girl screams."

"These are musical ghosts?" she said skeptically.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. 

He cleared his throat, turned a corner, and continued. "All these are newspapers. This part of Pennsylvania Avenue is called Newspaper Row. The Washington Post, The Washington Times,” he listed, and added, “We don't like them. Here's Tom Bradley's Saloon, where my father bought me my first drink of whiskey. I used to meet him for lunch near here."

"Did your parents live close by?"

"No. My mother and stepfather have a house in Georgetown when Congress is in session. I suppose Mother still has it. They live in Boston."

"Your mother has remarried?"

"Yes," he said tightly, and changed the subject. "If we would keep going, we'd pass Center Market and get to the U.S. Capitol Building. Poppy can show you the market. I thought you might like to stop here, though, before we return home."

"What is here?"

"The Washington Evening Star. Would you like to see my newspaper? Some of the typesetters are still cleaning up, but the reporters and the office staff are gone. I thought you might like the penny tour while it's quiet."

Mulder tied the horses to the hitching post in front of the building and helped her down. 

Byers was carrying a sheaf of papers across the lobby, which he dropped and stopped short. He turned his head sideways, looking like a reddish Labrador Retriever who heard a funny noise. Mulder's editor-in-chief, by comparison, made Mulder look like Romeo with the ladies. 

"Dana, this is John Byers. He's the man who runs things around here."

"John Byers," Byers repeated. He pumped Dana’s hand. "My name is John Byers."

"Byers is the soul of wit and grace," Mulder commented, and Byers let go of Dana's hand. “And married. Do not be swayed by his silver tongue.”

Dana flexed her hand as if getting the blood flowing again. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Byers."

"You are Irish. My mother was Irish," Byers responded, and launched into a long discourse in gobbledy-guck.

Byers and Dana were mid 'guck' when Mulder gave him a stern look. The tour continued in English, with Byers at their heels.

"The lobby, obviously. My office." He showed her the cluttered desk and collection of junk and dust, and moved on. "The first floor is offices: circulation, advertising, accounting. In the back are the loading docks. Wagons take each edition to the street corners for the newsboys to sell, to the train deport to be shipped locally, and to the boat docks to go overseas."

Mulder opened the door to the stairs and offered Dana his arm as they climbed. On the second floor, he told her, "This is where the paper is printed. Byers approves all the stories and images, and the typesetters-" 

Like a badger popping up from his hole, an almost bald, scruffy head appeared from behind one of the machines. Frohike pursed his lips and whistled softly. "I should have come to lunch. Hello, pretty lady."

"Don't touch him," Mulder warned. "You don't know where he's been. Dana, meet Melvin Frohike. He was part of the deal with I bought the paper; I had to take him. Rumor has it he sleeps underneath one of the presses at night and lives on the raw flesh of apprentice typesetters. Don't ever believe anything he says."

Frohike grinned and offered his filthy hand. After examining it, Dana smiled back and shook it. Frohike asked, “How did a pretty lady like you come to be married to this over-grown fool?”

“Just lucky, I suppose,” she answered easily.

They showed her how the metal type was set and, after the presses ran, broken down to be cleaned and reused. At the engravers' benches, Frohike explained how sketches got transferred and carved into pieces of wood or metal in order to be printed. It was an exacting craft; one mistake made the engraving unusable.

"Samuel's," Mulder said. He put one hand on her back and pointed with the other to the framed prints on the wall above one bench. "Most drawings you see in a newspaper or magazine are drawn by one man and engraved by several others, so they're unsigned. Sam signs his, since he does all the drawing and carving himself."

"Did you meet Samuel?" Frohike asked - a roundabout way of asking how long she'd known Mulder.

"I have not met him yet," she answered. 

Frohike and Byers waited expectantly, but she didn't elaborate. 

Frohike tried a different tack. "I understand there's a new baby at your house."

Mulder intervened. "She's Emily, she's three months old, and she's beautiful. Stop fishing for information and show her the presses."

The presses weren't running or Mulder wouldn't have let Dana in the room. If the hem of her skirt or sleeve accidentally caught in one of the huge machines, it would pull her in. Many of the men who ran the presses had nicknames like 'Stubby.' No one in a skirt or below the age of fourteen - or however old Samuel happened to be – was allowed near the presses.

The third floor was deserted as they walked through. Scribbled, crumpled papers littered the floor, waiting for the janitor's broom. Reporters arrived at their desks at six in the morning and left by two. Once the presses ran and they had tomorrow's assignments, their job ended until the next day. 

In contrast, the top floor was a manic symphony of tapping telegraph machine. 

"A.P.?" Dana asked. She pointed to the sign.

"Associated Press." Mulder had to raise his voice to be heard. "Stories come into this office from all over the country and are sent out by telegraph. If a ship comes into port with an interesting article from Europe or Brazil or China, we can send it to another US city over the telegraph and it's there in seconds."

"And soon, to and from Europe," a gangly blond man told them as he sidled over to meet Dana. 

Mulder said, "The ship we were on - The Great Eastern – will lay a telegraph cable from New York across the Atlantic. If it's successful, we'll be able to transmit messages instantly to London and Liverpool. To Dublin." Mulder smiled at her. This was his element. As awkward as he felt dealing with people, he felt equally at ease with facts and words. 

"Mr. Langly," the blond man introduced himself, since Mulder had forgotten. 

"Mrs. Dana Waterston," she said, but quickly corrected, "Dana Mulder."

To cover the awkward pause, Mulder had her sit at one of the vacant telegraph machines, explaining how it and Morse code worked. "Langly can tell you the name of the operator hundreds of miles away sending the telegram to him."

"I know their dots and dashes," Langly said cryptically.

"Same way you tell a boy kitten from a girl kitten," Mulder said into her ear, and she smiled. "Go ahead. Press the key." She did, sending a single electronic click amid the thousands of others in the room. "Someone heard you in New York." 

"Opie heard it," Langly supplied.

Dana stared uncertainly at the machine. "In New York? Are you teasing me again, Mr. Mulder?"

"I promise I'm not. Press it again; confuse Opie." 

Mulder stepped back and let Langly and Byers show her the protocol for sending a message. Dana pressed the key a few more times, fascinated.

"She loves you," Frohike observed quietly, standing beside Mulder. "Of course she loves you. All the pretty ones do. Damn it, at first I thought I had a chance with her. Alas, my poor heart is breaking." 

"Oh, hush up," Mulder said, laughing and watching her.

*~*~*~*

Night brought silence. The servants left, the baby slept. The fire snapped and crackled, and occasionally a log split and disintegrated into molten-orange coals. 

Mulder sat on the floor near the hearth in their bedroom, leaning back against the sofa with his bare legs outstretched. Dana faced him with one knee on either side of his hips and a blanket draped loosely around her. No gentleman would let a lady shiver in bed as he made love to her. The proper thing to do was pick her up, carry her closer to the fire, and make love to her there.

"Are your feet warm?" Mulder outlined the ridge of her collarbone with his lips.

"They are, thank you. Would you like to feel?"

He slid his hands under the blanket, down her backbone, and to the hot flesh of her backside. "Yes, I would. I think I'll start here and work my way down. I want to be thorough," He stroked the back of her thighs, and slipped his fingers between them. "And check-" He slid his hands higher, urging her legs apart. "Every-" Higher, to the soft, damp patch of hair. "Inch," he finished huskily. 

Watching her face change as he touched her was intoxicatingly erotic. She - this - was opium in female form: equally dangerous and twice as addictive.

Mulder wondered if Frohike was right. If she did love him.

He tugged at the blanket. It fell to the floor, leaving her bare in the firelight. Her cool breasts grazed his chest, a delicious contrast to the warmth of her back and the hotness inside her. At his request, she'd left her hair down, and it hung to her waist in thick auburn waves. It shimmered as she moved and felt soft as silk as he ran his fingers through it.

"There's a science called phrenology claiming you can tell someone's personality by the shape of their skull." He ran a hand over her scalp. "For instance, this ridge at the back indicates physical lust, and above it, this one, a love for children and family. Loyalty. Here is kindness, intelligence, idealism, and this: stubbornness. Yours is frighteningly large."

She trailed her index finger down his profile to his lips. "I bumped my head this morning, Mr. Mulder."

He sighed, pretending to be relieved. "Thank God. I was worried."

"You are making up this phrenology science."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, sir. A creative truth-teller."

He smirked and kissed her fingertip. "It's true. Please don't start calling me 'sir.' 'Mr. Mulder' is bad enough. Can't I be 'Mulder?’" 

She leaned forward, her hips poised over his. "'Malda,'" she said into his ear, "is 'gentle' in my language.”

"'Malda,' I promise. Are you still sore?”

“Yes.” She started to get up, as if thinking he wanted to go back to bed. 

"No. Here,” he requested. “Like this. So it will not hurt as much. And so I can watch you."

"Here?"

"Here." 

He positioned and guided her hips slowly down, biting his lip as her inner muscles enveloped him. She slid down farther until her hips rested flush against his. She stopped, breathing heavily. 

"Oh, God. Jesus, Dana." He groaned at the sensation of being a thousand kisses deep inside her.

He gritted his teeth and let his head fall back on the sofa cushion. She shifted; he gasped. He put his hands on her hips and rocked her against him. 

"That's nice," he whispered to her. "So nice. Don't stop." 

She let him guide her into a slow rhythm. Dana rested her hands on his shoulders as her hips rose and fell over his. Mulder raised his head, opening his eyes to watch her, fascinated. 

"You are beautiful." A fine sheen of perspiration covered her breasts, and her mouth moved silently as she rocked, exhaling with each thrust. "You are. I like watching you."

She tilted her hips, changing the angle and taking him deeper inside her.

"Don't stop, Dana. Make love to me."

She murmured something in Gaelic that sounded like his name, and rested her forehead against his shoulder. He put his arms around her and closed his eyes. 

"Don't stop," he repeated with increasing urgency. His feet shifted against the floor. “Love me.” 

Her thighs trembled, and her breath was hot and labored against his shoulder, but she didn't stop. “Mr. Mulder-”

“Don’t stop. Harder.” He put a hand on her hip again, guiding her to thrust harder, faster. He gritted his teeth as the pressure inside him built, blocking out every other sensation. He felt her muscles spasm and heard her gasp and moan, and gasp again. Her fingers gripped his back desperately. She thrust hard against him a few more times, cried out and, panting, went limp.

“Dana?” he said breathlessly. He was so close it hurt, but she was spent and boneless. His ‘don’t stop’ command seemed forgotten. “Are you all right?”

She nodded stupidly. “I am sorry. Come,” she said, and brought him with her as she laid back in front of the fireplace. 

Mulder entered her again, sliding easily inside. Her hips rose to meet each of his desperate thrusts. “Too rough?” 

If there was an answer, he didn't hear it. A dozen more deep thrusts and her fingernails dug into his shoulders. It happened again: a quick series of inner contractions, more powerful this time. Dana stiffened beneath him and cried out in what he would have sworn was waves of pain, but did not seem to be. His response was an ineloquent curse and release so intense he saw stars.

One of life's mysteries solved, Mulder realized, once he could think again. The rapture, he assumed, was the female orgasm.

Dana opened her eyes. She lay beside the hearth, looking flushed and uncertain in the firelight. This was, in no way, ladylike. She should be ashamed it happened and, as a gentleman, Mulder should be mortified by her behavior.

"It's fine," he assured her, before she could apologize. He pushed her hair back from her sweaty face. "I won’t tell anyone.”

She licked her swollen lips. He sat beside her, wearing a sheen of sweat, a stupid expression, and what he was born in.

"A secret I will gladly keep.” He swallowed. “Will it happen again? If I want it to?”

Her hair was mussed and her chest flushed. Still on her back, she blinked up at him and asked, “Now?”

“No. I cannot move now. Later. Tomorrow morning,” he assured her. “And perhaps also while I am home for lunch.”

*~*~*~*

Mulder floated in a blissful haze as he stumbled back to bed, leading Dana with him. Possibilities he had read about applied to him. To have a woman truly enjoy lovemaking: his world felt pleasantly rearranged.

He had yet to feel mortified, though he did wonder what Dana thought of him. Letting her - in fact encouraging her to – climax was as perverse as bringing his razor strop to bed. 

Mulder suspected Dana lay beside him and wondered what he thought of her.

Bone-tired, he spooned up behind her, closed his eyes, and asked, “Why, Dana? Why did you do it?"

"In front of the fire? Because you asked me to, Mr. Mulder," she answered. “I did not plan for it to happen, but you told me not to stop. I could not make it stop.”

She did not have a word in English for it. “Orgasm,” he said. “The word is the same for men or women.” He rephrased his question. “Why did you marry me?" 

She sighed. "Again, you asked."

"There's no shortage of men who would have asked. Why me? Because I was your friend? Because I was there?"

"Because you wanted me."

“Dr. Waterston was unfaithful, but you knew I would not be?"

Dana didn't respond for a long time. He knew she was embarrassed, and he thought he'd upset her further by mentioning Waterston. Except for slipping at the newspaper this evening, she hadn't mentioned her late husband since they left Savannah. Neither had Mulder.

"Mr. Mulder, have you ever wondered if there is something more?" Dana asked quietly. "Have you laid in bed at night and – despite the comforts life has blessed you with - stared up into the darkness and wondered if what you have is all there is to life?"

Mulder stroked her arm.

“The yearning is foolish and ungrateful,” she told him. “To covet a life not yours. To want to live and love as others do - or, at least, as you think others might. Have you ever, against all wisdom and people’s expectations, wanted a life not yours?”

Yes, he thought to himself. He had. And so he had married her.

“And so I married you, Mr. Mulder,” Dana said in the quiet darkness.

“So you did,” he responded softly. 

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus V


	2. Chapter 2

Begin: Paracelsus VI

*~*~*~*

Dear Melly, 

It's mid-morning, and I've cleared a place amid the wreckage of my office to write. As I walked through the building a few minutes ago, I started to count the empty desks and machines. There are more than I could stand to think about. "Gettysburg," someone said of Morgan's vacant chair. The two Chinese engravers, Wong and Kim? "Shiloh," Frohike answered. Spotnitz, Gilligan, and Goodwin? "Bull Run." Bowman, Gordon? "Spotsylvania." And "Antietam" and "Fredericksburg" and "Vicksburg" and "Andersonville" on and on until I stopped asking, came to my office, and locked the door.

The doctors call it Da Costa's syndrome or soldier's heart. Irritable heart, nostalgia, and effort syndrome - all names for the way the war continues inside a soldier long after it ended on the battlefield.

I wonder how many men I have killed. Hundreds, at least. Thousands, most likely. I see their faces at night as I try to sleep. I hear blood gurgling in their throats and feel the sting of gunpowder in my nostrils. I wonder how many of my own soldiers I watched die either in battle or in the days afterward. They haunt me too: the death rattle in their chests, the terror in their eyes. In my dreams I hear the wounded horses screaming and feel men's fingers clutching at my boots, croaking out “water” as they die slowly under the hot sun. 

I wonder how I am not completely insane, and yet I suspect every soldier who survived the war wonders the same thing. We do not speak of it, but I think we do. And we are the fortunate ones.

A quarter-million husbands and fathers and brothers and sons who should be living are now dead. I should have been counted among them but, I think, through some cosmic mistake, I was not. I have an unsettled, queasy sense my life has wandered not off the path, but off the map, and I am someplace I was never intended - but have been before. 

Or I'm mistaking indigestion and a case of soldier's heart for spiritual insight.

Regardless, this is the wreckage. Those left behind can lie down and wait for Death, or we can grieve, gather what remains, and rebuild. The opposite of war isn't peace, Melly. It's creation. I spent months thinking I looked for peace when I needed was a foundation on which to rebuild. I needed a landmark to guide me in this lonely, uncharted, hellish world if I was to find my way home.

I married Dana for two reasons. I was desperate, and she was exactly what I needed. At the time, I realized neither. Now I realize both. 

Mulder

*~*~*~*

The sum instruction Mulder received in marital relations was Melly's father's wedding night advice: "She's pregnant, you son-of-a-bitch; leave her the hell alone." His own father, not far from being a grandfather, had assumed Mulder knew all he needed to of the fairer sex.

In truth, Mulder had once briefly encountered the anatomical basics necessary to create a child, though Samuel's conception had been an inch short of immaculate. Melly had been crying, he'd been comforting, and she'd kissed him. Two minutes later, he'd been rebuttoning, still uncertain as to exactly what had happened.

Some paternal wisdom and reassurance would have been welcome. 

He remembered waiting in his bedroom in his parent's house after the wedding reception. His stomach knotted and his palms sweated. He did not know if he should undress or not, sit in a chair, lie on the bed, or stand. He'd paced for what seemed like hours until his mother brought Melly to him, kissed him on the cheek without looking him in the eyes, and closed the door on her way out. 

A nervous, inexperienced groom and a queasy, shy, frightened fifteen-year-old bride hadn't made for conjugal bliss - then or in the future. 

Over the years, he invested in numerous manuals for new grooms, most written in language so vague and flowery he wasn't sure if he should kiss and caress a woman's body or pluck it and put it in a vase. Although the illustrations were interesting, pornographic novels were equally unhelpful with their enthusiastic, vulgar descriptions of rapture and ravishment. Mulder seldom wanted to ravish anyone; he wanted to love a woman at night as easily and naturally as he did during the day.

Yes, he had lain awake at night, stared at the ceiling as Melly slept, and wondered if life held something more.

As he massaged her back, Dana sighed contentedly in her sleep. Her tousled hair fell in long, red tangles over the pillow. Mulder smelled the night on her: the sweet, soft scent of Emily and midnight feedings, the salty, acidic odor of sweat and semen from him, and a musky feminine scent designed to bypass a man's reason.

He pushed the blankets down, sat beside her, and passed his hands in long, slow strokes over her bare backside and thighs. The lamp on the night stand flickered against the predawn darkness, making the transparent hairs on her back and shoulders glisten against her pale skin. Mulder told her to turn over. He examined the faint red marks across her hipbones, the soft weight of her breasts, the old white scars on her knees from unnamed childhood adventures, and the light scattering of freckles on her nose. She was real, laid out for him across the sheets of his bed in beautiful imperfection. 

Dana inhaled and opened her eyes. She blinked and blushed. "You were watching me again." She rolled away and reached for a blanket to cover up.

He put his hand on her hip, pulling her back. "I was. But I wasn't finished." 

Under his intense gaze, the blush spread from her face down to her chest. "Mr. Mulder..." she began sleepily, batting him away. 

"I can watch my wife it I want," he informed her. Mulder traced a lazy line with his finger from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach, and down between her thighs. He placed her wrists above her head with his free hand, for the first time taking her up on the offer to hold her down. "I want to watch you. I've seen you watching me as we make love."

She shook her head no, but wet her lips and shifted her hips as he touched between her legs. 

"No, you haven't watched me, or no, you don't want me to watch you?"

"No, I-" She moaned and closed her eyes when he found her clitoris. 

"No, you don't like my fingers? I'm sorry. Would you like my mouth?" he offered and felt her inner muscles contract. "Tonight? Would you like that? I'm sure a proper lady never thinks about a man's tongue between her legs." 

He lowered his head. Her muscles tensed again as his lips worked their way down her stomach. At the last minute, he instead took her nipple into his mouth. He slid his fingers inside her, and back to her clitoris again. Inside and back; inside and back. He switched breasts and let go of her wrists so she could touch him. Beneath his drawers, he was uncomfortable erect. His plan to arrive early for work had been compromised. Again.

“Make it happen again,” Mulder requested, sitting back on the mattress. “What happened last night. I want to watch you.”

Her legs remained open, but she pushed up on her elbows, wide awake and looking at him with a wrinkle between her brows. “You want me to do it in front of you?”

“Yes.”

Her expression suggested she was about to refuse. 

“I am your husband,” he reminded her sternly. “You did it in front of me last night. Do as I tell you. I want to watch you.” 

Dana looked at him a long minute but lay back. Her face flushed down to her breasts. She exhaled, closed her eyes, and put her hand between her legs. Mulder watched, wide-eyed. She touched herself as he had: rubbing and stroking the little knot of flesh at the top of her sex.

He had miscommunicated in the most wonderful manner imaginable.

He never imagined women masturbated. Until he heard soldiers talking vulgarly during the war, he had not thought most men masturbated, either.

Her face looked pained, but Dana breaths quickened and her back arched. Her thighs trembled. He learned more in a minute of watching her than he had from reams of marriage manuals.

“Is this what you wanted, Mr. Mulder?” she asked in a breathy, husky voice. 

Finding he could move again, he began unbuttoning his drawers. “I dislike you being so illicit without my presence. It seems wasteful.” He tossed a pillow against the headboard, jerked the front of his drawers down, and sat beside her. “Bring your wickedness and come here,” he invited.

Dana sat up and maneuvered onto his lap. As she eased her body down on his, Mulder moved to guide her hips. She stopped his hands. “I did as you asked,” she reminded him. She put his hands to her breasts, instead. “Now do as I ask. Lay back, Mr. Mulder.” She traced her index finger down his profile, to his mouth. He smelled her sex. Her damp finger stroked his bottom lip. “If you want to watch me, mo rún, lay back and I will show you wickedness.”

As frightened as he was to accept her offer, he would be a fool to decline it. Mulder lay back against the pillows and licked his lips.

She moved, not with the hard, deep thrusts he directed last night, but slowly, lazily, with each stroke barely a tilt of her hips. Her hair fell over her face and her breasts bounced erotically. He watched her face, and his body slide in and out of hers. She began to make noises. To grimace as if he hurt her. She began to say his name. She was the wickedest and beautiful thing he ever saw.

Mesmerized by her, Mulder barely heard the back door open. Footsteps crossed the kitchen: Poppy arriving at work early. As footsteps ascended the stairs, he hushed Dana.

Dana would not be hushed.

Shoes passed the nursery and approached their bedroom, and Dana noticed. Poppy wasn’t likely to interrupt him with Dana except to throw cold water on them.

Mulder pushed Dana behind him, pulled up his drawers, and scrambled for the pistol in the top drawer of the night stand. He raised it as the bedroom door swung open. 

An old man stormed in, waving a folded newspaper at Mulder. "What the hell is this, Fox?" He gestured to the paper with his cigarette.

Mulder exhaled and lowered the pistol. "Today's news; tomorrow's bird cage liner," he answered. He lay propped up on elbow, shielding Dana behind him. "Greetings, Uncle-Father. It's early. Shouldn't you still be in bed with your brother's wife?"

"Don't start your smart mouth with me, boy," Spender snapped. "I won't stand for it."

"By all means, leave, Uncle Spender."

"My name is Mulder - the same as yours." His uncle glared at him. "You can stop the noble, wronged son act. You aren't Hamlet."

"Your name isn't 'Mulder' because my grandfather never married your mother. You aren't my father. I'm not a boy. If you ever barge into my house again, I'll shoot you like the cowardly bastard you are and not a soul will miss you."

Spender hesitated. "What is this?" he asked again, less demanding as he brandished the paper.

Mulder sat up and pulled a blanket across his lap. He held the newspaper close to the lamp, reading the advertisement at the bottom of page two. “'Seeking a certain Negro woman named Mary Anne. Sold in Washington to Thomas Carberry of Manassas, VA for $900 February 8, 1861. Also Negro girl named Julie, age 8, sold to same for $50.' It's an ex-slave looking for his wife and daughter. What business is it of yours?"

"First of all, why do you accept ads from Negroes? They can't even read-"

"First of all, I own the newspaper,” Mulder reminded him. “I can take ads from anyone I like."

Spender paused to take a drag from his cigarette. "Your mother wants you at dinner tonight. Eight o'clock. You and this Irish peasant you've married. She wants to know why she hasn't seen her new granddaughter."

"I have sent her messages," Mulder answered tightly.

"Tonight at eight," the old man snapped. He sniffed the air. He glanced at Dana in disgust, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Mulder sighed in exasperation and sank back down on the mattress, staring the ceiling. "Dana, let me introduce you to stepfather," he muttered. 

She flung the sheet off and flopped back on the pillows, still flushed and mussed. “I hate him.”

“It doesn’t take long,” Mulder assured her.

*~*~*~*

Mulder once watched copper wire made, a piece of metal spun into a gossamer thread. He felt like that thread: beginning as solid but pulled impossibly spider-web thin. Any second, he'd snap in two and drift off with the cold, damp wind.

Underneath the table, out of sight, Dana put her hand on his thigh, reassuring him. Mulder covered her hand with his, squeezing gently, and the din of a half-dozen empty dinner party conversations faded to background noise. She glanced at him and smiled like the Mona Lisa - mysterious, gentle, intimate - and he exhaled. He removed his hand and she removed hers. She turned back to pretend she was enraptured by the endless, pointless story some foreign ambassador told over dessert.

The clock struck nine. The guests rose from the table in unison and assumed their roles in the parlor. This was Mulder’s mother's element, and people put on their best evening-wear and manners for her dinner parties. She had been Mrs. Senator Mulder and, if Mulder’s stepfather had his way, she would soon be again. Teena Mulder's pedigree opened doors and pockets along the east coast otherwise forever closed to Senator Mulder's bastard half-brother. She was wealthy, charming and, approaching fifty, still elegantly beautiful. Mulder understood why his Uncle Spender married her.

He couldn't understand why the hell his mother had married Spender. A few months ago, he received a telegram. Not an invitation to a wedding, not a letter, not a request for his blessing. Mulder got a telegram. Have married Mr. Spender. Stop. Delightfully happy. Stop.

Servants brought delicate crystal goblets of wine for the ladies and brandy for the gentlemen. Mulder took the fullest snifter, watched his stepfather smoking and politicking across the room, and silently told himself 'half an hour more' and he could leave.

He found a chair in the corner of the crowded room and counted down the minutes as he sipped the brandy. A maid signaled Dana, who rose and moved away. Emily must be awake and hungry. The cacophony of polite chatter paused, eyeing Dana suspiciously. No one had cut her, but no one would - not tonight. They'd take note so they could tear her to shreds over tea tomorrow in their salons. Mulder knew how this game was played.

Dana was an outsider. A pretty, mysterious outsider who married to Senator Mulder's son - obviously because he had to marry her. Everyone knew he was devastated by Melly's death – “Such a tragedy,” they said idly, “But to be expected.” Everyone could count: Emily had been conceived six months after Melissa died. “Opportunist,” they would dub Dana. “Shameful: preying on a grieving widower.” Everyone knew about Sarah, and Sam came five months after Mulder married Melly. There was the question of Poppy's baby. They would sigh and gesture in leisurely distress. “When will Fox learn?”

Mulder gritted his teeth and took another snifter from a tray as a servant passed.

"Come sit by me," his mother offered. Mulder he went to her. There was no chair, so he sat on the floor at her feet and stretched his legs out across the rug. This was his childhood home; he could sprawl on the floor during a party if he liked.

He looked up at her. "Are you enjoying yourself, Mother?" he asked dutifully. It was the first time they'd spoken since he arrived, which meant it was the third time they'd spoken since Melly's funeral.

"I am. You seem so sad, though."

"We haven't been out among people - Dana and I. It's difficult."

"Of course, it is. So many things have changed."

"Yes," he answered softly.

She ran her fingers through his hair. "Everything has changed. These drapes are new. And the rugs. Of course, my dress." 

"Your dress is lovely, Mother," he answered automatically. He leaned against the rustling lilac fabric of her skirt as she shifted her attention to another of her guests. His mother smelled like a purple flower. Violets or lavender. It comforted him to be close. Occasionally, she stroked his hair, lulling him, so he stayed like a dog waiting for a crumb.

"Fox," she asked. "Where is my beautiful daughter-in-law?"

"Upstairs with the baby, I believe."

His mother's eyes widened, and she leaned down. "You left Melissa alone with the baby?" she chastised him in a whisper.

"Dana," he whispered back, reminding her, "Is fine with Emily."

She blinked, seeming momentarily confused. "Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Yes. Dana," she said to herself. "Your wife is Dana. The baby is Emily."

"Yes. I think she's awake. Do you want me to check?"

She nodded, so he got to his feet. The pleasant warmth of the brandy tingled his toes and fingertips. She tilted her cheek for a kiss, and squeezed his hand before he left the parlor.

As he climbed, Mulder remembered waiting, terrified, on the staircase with his father while Sam was born. They'd started out in the parlor, quite proper and trying to stay out of the way, but as the hours had passed and the tension built, edged closer and closer to the upstairs bedroom. Mulder could hear Melly pleading with the doctor to make the pains stop. He had gnawed his lower lip raw as dark began to creep into dawn. Maids rushed up and down the stairs, bringing towels and water and scissors and avoiding questions. "Soon," his father had assured him, trying to sound confident. Mulder had chanted the word to himself, as comforted as if the prediction had come directly from God. Soon everything would be all right.

He wanted to go home. He wasn't ready for this. Every nook and cranny held a memory. He felt the copper of his heart being drawn out again, groaning in pain and fraying as it pulled thin.

"Mother wants to see the baby again before we go," he told Dana decisively. "It's getting late."

He nodded to the maid, who went to tell the butler to tell a footman to tell the driver to bring the carriage around.

"You look nice. I don't think I've told you," he added, paying her the obligatory complement. "You do."

The low neckline of her dinner dress showed off her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, which were pushed high by her corset. Dana was petite anyway, and while he'd liked the softness she had a month ago, the tape measure around her waist now met with her approval. The bodice of her new dress fit like a glove and spread out into a dozen yards of black taffeta. He'd supplied the jewelry this afternoon: a single large pearl suspended from a gold chain around her neck, and a pearl-seeded comb in her hair. He'd watched the maid put Dana's hair up earlier, securing all the auburn curls with the one comb. He didn't know how that was possible, but he looked forward to pulling it out and seeing her mane cascade down over her bare shoulders. There remained unfinished wicked business between them from this morning.

"Thank you," Dana answered after he'd forgotten what he'd said. "I would ask if you are all right, but I know you are not."

"No, I'm not." He'd watched Sarah die in this room, and spent his wedding night with Melissa in a bedroom down the hall. "Let's get this done and go home."

She nodded, following him and Emily down the stairs. They reached the front hall. He felt her hand in his, steadying him. 

"Blue eyes," his mother commented, stroking Emily's cheek. "But she looks like you, Fox."

"Do you think?" he answered evasively. "I think she looks like Dana, except for the hair." A light covering of blonde wisps had made an appearance on Emily's head. "Do you want to hold her?"

"Another time. My dress..."

"Of course. Mother, everything was lovely. We'll see you again soon. I want to get Dana and the baby home before it gets colder outside." Or before he started screaming how surreally wrong this was.

She smiled sweetly. "You be careful. Have my sweet Samuel give me a kiss before he leaves."

Mulder leaned close, out of everyone else's hearing. "Sam hasn't come home from the war, Mother. He isn't with us tonight. We talked about this earlier."

He saw it again: a fleeting airy confusion in her eyes.

"Of course. Yes, I remember. Did Melissa come?"

"Melly's dead, Mother. You were at her funeral."

"Of course," she repeated, still smiling. “Such a tragedy.”

*~*~*~*

He helped Dana into the carriage, handed Emily up to her, and closed the door so they'd stay warm. It rained again, and the drops felt like ice was creeping inside the collar of his topcoat. 

His uncle was on the porch, wishing the other guests well as they left. Mulder waited until they were alone.

"Whatever it is you want- If you hurt her, I will kill you," Mulder said.

It wasn’t a threat, but a statement of fact.

Mulder turned away, climbed into the carriage, and knocked sharply on the roof for the driver to take them home.

*~*~*~*

He'd had too much to drink. He wasn't drunk, but he close, and Dana wasn't happy. He'd been fixated on pulling the comb out of her hair, and there the wickedness promised this morning. And a proposal about his tongue. Obviously, neither was happening unless he wanted to hold her down and risk frostbite from her thighs. Mulder couldn't say be blamed her; he wouldn't want to go to bed with him tonight, either.

"I could feed her if I had breasts," he mumbled, watching her from the doorway of the nursery.

As he said them, those words made perfect sense to him. Maybe he was drunk.

"I will buy you one first thing tomorrow," she answered tiredly, unbuttoning her dress.

"I want two. I want them about..." He held up his hands, cupping them as though he held grapefruits. He checked the outline of Dana's breasts and re-sized to oranges. "Like this. Fair. Dark pink nipples."

"You will have to take whatever the market has. Go to bed, Mr. Mulder."

He yawned and ambled to their bedroom, stripping off his shoes and tuxedo as he went. He'd planned to wait for her and apologize but tossed and turned and fell into the confusing twilight maze between awake and asleep. 

*~*~*~*

In his dream, the house was new; the paint had barely had time to dry. The rooms smelled of mortar and the wooden crates the furniture had been shipped in. After years of living with his parents, Melly seemed delighted to have a house of her own, and had fabric swatches scattered everywhere, unable to choose. Mulder had bought the fledgling Evening Star. He ate, slept, and breathed newsprint and hot metal type. Samuel had been a dark-haired bundle of sweetness and talent and, that day, the sun had been shining.

Mulder’s stomach growled as he came through the back door. He hadn't been much past what people considered 'a growing boy.'

"Dumplings," the cook informed him. She slapped his hand away from the pot on the stove. "They'll fall if you mess with them. You won't die of hunger in ten minutes."

Instead, he stole a biscuit from the pan and backed away, wagging his eyebrows at her as he took a bite and knowing he was being bad.

"Where's my boy?" he asked around a mouthful of buttery goodness.

"Upstairs asleep."

"Asleep?" 

"He's taking a nap. He fell off the banister and hurt his arm earlier. Poppy went for the doctor, to be careful. She says it's not broken, though."

Mulder tossed the remainder of his biscuit to Grace and turned, hurrying toward the stairs with the puppy at his heels.

"Miss Melissa's with him," the cook called after him, and Mulder walked faster. 

Sam's bedroom was empty, but Mulder found him in the master bedroom, asleep with Melly on the high bed. Mulder was glad to see she'd relaxed. Melissa was up the last few nights, restless and fretful and keeping him awake. Normally, he tried to soothe her fears, but by four in the morning, after the millionth “what if, Fox” question, he had enough. No one was going to break into the house, he'd told her tersely. No one was going to look in their bedroom window, no one was going to spy through the keyhole, and no one was listening outside the door - as if there was anything happening to see or hear, anyway. "Stop being so silly, settle down, and go to sleep," he'd barked from the sofa. She’d huddled down in the bed, if not sleeping, at least being quiet enough for him to sleep. He'd intended to apologize at dinner.

"You two make a pretty picture," Mulder said, which they did. He sat on the mattress beside them and stroked Melly's shoulder.

Melly didn't move. Her bottle of laudanum - a potent mixture of opium and alcohol – sat on the night stand. The doctor prescribed it to help her sleep, but she took it if she was upset. She took too much, Mulder thought. Samuel getting hurt would have upset her, though. She'd probably thought Mulder would be furious she 'let' their son fall off the banister. 

Grace paced beside the bed, whining.

Leaning over Melissa, Mulder unbuttoned and rolled up Sam's sleeve, examining the purple bruise on his forearm. Poppy was right; it was bad, but not broken. Instead of flinching or pulling away, his son coughed weakly, his lips blue. His stick-straight black hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty chunks, and beads of perspiration collected on his little nose.

"Sam," Mulder said sharply. "Samuel," he repeated, his stomach tightening. He put his hands on the child's shoulders and shook him. Sam's head lolled, and he coughed again, having trouble breathing. Mulder sniffed his breath, detecting the sickening-sweet scent of laudanum.

Two gut-wrenching days later, Samuel woke from the overdose, surprised he and Mother weren't together in Heaven like she'd told him they'd be. Because Daddy would be angry about his arm, of course.

The doctor recommended Melly rest, and suggested another stay in the secluded, private mental asylum. Her first stay had been after she'd tried to drown Sam when he was three weeks-old.

*~*~*~*

Mulder opened his eyes as the clock downstairs chimed four, disoriented and still tipsy. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, licking his fuzzy teeth and scratching his bare chest sleepily. He seldom slept in the bed, and he never slept there alone. Melly liked him close, but not touching her, so he usually slept on the sofa across the room.

Melly wasn't in the bed. Something was wrong.

Samuel's bedroom was empty, too, as was the nursery across the hall. Mulder raised his candle and stared at the cheery wallpaper behind the crib. He remembered which woman and baby he searched for.

Melly was dead. It was Dana and Emily who weren't in bed.

Half awake, without the aid of reason or daylight, he imagined all the dangers. Someone could have broken in and taken Dana and the baby. Some lunatic or rapist or murderer. She, she, she could have been carrying Emily in the darkness and fallen, knocking herself unconscious and unable to call for help. Or she could have taken her daughter and left him.

He checked the front door, found it locked, and stumbled to the back door. The floor under his bare feet changed from marble tile to plush rugs to smooth wooden planks as he reached the kitchen. 

Grace peeked out from behind the stove. The dog whimpered and laid his muzzle flat on the floor.

"Are they in here, boy?" Mulder asked. He looked around the dark, empty kitchen. "Dana?"

From the other side of the bathroom door, water sloshed against the sides of the big bathtub he'd installed for Melly.

"I am here," Dana called. "I am taking a bath."

His throat tightened, choking off breath. "Where's the baby?"

"She is with me."

His heart beat faster. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. 

"Open the door," Mulder ordered. "Right now."

This wasn't real. It wasn't happening again. He was still dreaming.

Water splashed as a body shifted. "Just a minute."

"Now, Melly!"

"Mr. Mul-"

He stepped back, gritted his teeth, and kicked open the door with his bare foot, splintering the wood. 

Dana sat in the bathtub, holding Emily against her chest and staring at him like he was crazy. The water looked clear and, in the candlelight, he saw her legs underneath the waves. No blood. The baby started to cry. 

"What are you-"

"Give him here," he demanded. He snatched Emily from her and wrapped the infant in a towel. Mulder jiggled the terrified baby, trying to sooth her. "It's okay. It's okay; I have you. It'll be all right." 

"What is wrong? We smelled like smoke from the party,” Dana said angrily. “She would not sleep, so we were taking a bath."

"I was- I, uh..." Mulder swallowed, realizing what he'd done. 

Not knowing what else to do, he turned away, carrying Emily blindly through the darkness, navigating by memory.

"Mr. Mulder," Dana called. He heard her following up the stairs and down the long hallway to their bedroom. "Are you insane? What is wrong with you?"

He stared at her wordlessly, unable to get any sound out. 

"I'm sorry," he managed.

She had pulled on a nightgown. The fabric clung to her damp skin. "What is wrong? Why did you kick the door open?"

"I'm sorry."

"You are bleeding. Your foot is bleeding. Sit down and let me look-"

"Don't come near me." He backed away with the baby.

She followed, stepping toward him. "You called me Melly. You have never done that before. Not even in bed."

"I did not."

She nodded her head up and down. Yes, he had. 

"You thought I would hurt her. That is why you ask me all the time if I think Emily is all right." She paused, scrutinizing him. "Did Melissa hurt Samuel?"

"No," he said forcefully. He stepped back again. His legs pressed against the bed so he couldn't retreat farther. He laid Emily down, fencing her in with pillows. He turned around again. Dana’s nightgown had molded over her breasts and hips, and her wet hair hung down her back in blood red curls. 

"How did she die, Mr. Mulder? What was the accident?"

"What. Do. You. Want!" he exploded, towering over her. 

"I want to help you."

"I don't want your Goddamn help! I don't need it!" He bit his lip and braced his hands on his hips. "I'm going to work," he decided.

That was Dana's cue to get out of his way, but she stepped even closer, staring up at him. "It is four in the morning. You are not going to work. What was the accident, Mr. Mulder?"

"Move, Dana. You don't tell me what to do."

"What was the accident?"

"I'm warning you..."

"What was the accident?"

"The maid accidentally left my razor out and Melly slit her wrists! There! That's how she died! She killed herself. She killed the baby. Because of me. Is that what you wanted to know?" he screamed at her. 

He leaned against the bed, struggling to hold back tears. 

"Is that what you wanted to know, Dana?" he repeated hoarsely. "How I found her dead in a bathtub full of blood? How Sam's face looked? How I carried her upstairs and put her under the covers so she'd stay warm? How I wouldn't let the undertaker near her body for hours because I wouldn't believe she was dead? Do you want to know how it felt standing in the graveyard as they buried my wife and daughter while my son sobbed and knowing it was my fault? Is that what you wanted to know?" his throat croaked out.

She continued staring at him, stunned.

"I will take Emily to the nursery," she said quietly. "I will bring a basin and bandages and see to your foot. Stay here."

His blood pounded in his ears and his stomach churned. It hurt to breathe, and he wished he would vomit and get it over with.

"Do you think I'm insane?" he muttered when she returned.

"No. I told you: I think you are hurting." 

"I think I'm insane," he said, and she didn't answer.

She put her candle on the night stand, and guided him back so he sat on the mattress. Instead of sitting, though, he laid down, hugging his arms tightly around his shivering body. 

"I need to see your foot," she urged him gently.

"I don't care. Let it bleed. Lie down, Dana."

"Mr. Mulder, You are frightening me. Please..."

"I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “Lie down."

She did, though slowly. He scooted forward. He put his arms around her, buried his face in her wet hair, and closed his eyes. He waited until he was able to speak again. 

"Before Sam came," he whispered to her hoarsely, "Melly would sew shirts and send them to me at school because she was my wife and she thought her job was to keep me in shirts. They never fit. The sleeves would be two different lengths or the whole shirt three sizes too big, but I couldn't bear to tell her. I have a tailor near campus make copies that fit and wear those at home, and she never knew."

He tried to laugh at the memory and couldn't. 

"When Sam was five,” he continued, “on Christmas Eve, he wanted a zebra for Christmas. Melly and I spent the night in the stable painting stripes on a white horse with black shoe polish."

He huddled closer to Dana in the darkness.

"She loved getting dressed up to go to the theater and the opera, but she had no idea what was happening on stage, and she usually fell asleep against my shoulder before it was over. During intermission, though, we'd look through our opera glasses at people and I'd make up what they were saying, and she'd laugh. She loved me. She adored me. She thought I could do anything, fix anything. She was so beautiful, Dana, but I couldn't save her." 

"You tried."

"I didn't try hard enough. She loved me, and she wanted to marry me.” After a dry swallow, he confessed, “And I wanted to marry her sister." 

She rolled over, stroking his hair. "Close your eyes. It will be morning soon," she assured him. 

*~*~*~*

Mulder woke to a throbbing pain behind his forehead, a taste of dirty socks in his mouth, and a swollen gash on his foot. As he crept out of their bedroom, careful not to wake Dana, Mulder hoped vomiting would help, but suspected it wouldn't.

Poppy eyed him as he hobbled into the kitchen well after seven. Mulder wore his tuxedo trousers and nothing else - unshaven and with his hair standing on end. Yellow sunlight streamed through the windows and spilled across the floor; he grimaced and raised one hand, trying to shield his eyes. 

"Musta been quite a party," Poppy commented.

"Is there coffee?" he asked as two new powder kegs of pain exploded behind his eyeballs.

"You don't need no coffee," she answered knowingly, as he limped past her, still squinting. "It'll make you sicker. Hair of the dog is what you need."

"Coffee," he reiterated, turning back and pointing at the stove. Christ, he wanted one woman in this house who did as he told her.

Ignoring her stare, Mulder filled a pitcher from the stove reservoir and limped to the bathroom to shave and clean up. He returned, feeling a shade less miserable. She'd closed the curtains, mercifully blocking some of the light. However, an empty teacup on the kitchen table waited beside a plate of fried eggs, the whites still runny.

Poppy gave him a wicked smile.

"You're funny." He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. "Take that away or you'll find out what Mother served for dinner last night."

She slid the plate to the center of the table, letting the undercooked eggs cool before she gave them to Grace. "I'm making you tea, Fox. Hot tea with brandy. Some toast. You used all the hot water, so it'll be a minute."

He nodded - trying not to move his head - tea was acceptable.

"Your limp have somethin' to do with the busted lock on the bathroom door?" she asked. "Or the blood on the stairs?"

"Possibly. I was drunk. I don't remember."

She flipped two empty chairs around so they faced each other. Poppy gestured for Mulder to sit on one and prop his foot on the other, which he did. "That true?"

He could tell by her expression she knew it wasn't. 

"Possibly. I was drunk. I don't remember."

She hummed in the back of her throat. She leaned down and poked at the jagged cut on his heel. He jerked away as she found a tender spot. She pulled his foot back, frowning. 

"It hurts!"

"Course it hurts," she responded, sitting down. "It has a big splinter in it. Don't kick doors open if you don't want your foot to hurt, Fox. What happened last night? You have a fight with her?"

Dana was 'her' or 'Ma'am' or, if pressed, 'Miss Dana.' Poppy would have died before she addressed Dana as 'Mrs. Mulder.'

"Her?" 

"Her."

"I've told you: she's not 'her.' She's my wife," Mulder reminded her. "She's Emily's mother."

"She is," she agreed coolly. "And my Sam's stepmother."

"And Samuel's stepmother," he echoed, and he closed his eyes. Mulder massaged his temples as he waited on the teakettle.

Aside from a series of disapproving hums and sighs as she tried to dislodge the sliver of wood in his heel, Poppy cleared her throat and asked, "What you think Sam's gonna make of it?"

"Make of what?" he mumbled, massaging his forehead and half listening. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you think Sam’s gonna be pleased she was pregnant before his mother was even cold?"

He opened his eyes and stared at her, still hung-over and momentarily thinking he'd heard wrong. "That was vulgar and uncalled for, Poppy."

"Don't change it, though."

"It doesn't make it any of your business," he responded tersely.

A tense silence followed.

Poppy stared at him rebelliously as Mulder's head throbbed. She'd been forgetting lately she reported to him, not the other way around. He opened his mouth to remind her but closed it again.

His wife had died, but so had Poppy's half-sister. It was his unborn daughter, but also her niece. His son was missing, but so was the boy Poppy nursed and cared for. Mulder hadn't cornered the market on pain in their unjust world. Poppy had her share. 

Sarah, Melissa, even Jack Kavanaugh: her family was dead. Poppy was middle-aged, and the prettiness of her youth began to fade. Though many men pursued her for sport, Poppy was unlikely to marry, especially after giving birth to an illegitimate daughter.

Sadie had a white father somewhere. Perhaps the affair cooled once Poppy became pregnant, and she'd been discarded by one of Washington's gentlemen. Having an octoroon mistress was one thing; risking a bastard child yelling “Daddy” as you walked through the market with your wife put things in a less attractive light. Perhaps, though, Poppy's lover was working class and unable to keep her. Or the little girl's father was killed in the war, or was stationed in DC but returned to his family afterward. Whatever happened, Poppy was close-lipped about it. 

Samuel would have known the truth, but Sam wasn't around to ask.

Poppy poked at his heel a few more times. Mulder jerked his foot back, still frowning at her as his forehead throbbed and his eyes burned. Regardless of how much she might be hurting, it didn't excuse her calling Dana a whore.

"She is my wife," he repeated deliberately. "If you can't respect that, if you can't respect her..." He trailed off, not wanting to make a threat he wasn't willing to follow through on. She was Sam's nurse; when he returned, Samuel would need her.

"Guess it can't be undone," she said, seeming to realize she'd bitten off more than she could chew. Leaning sideways in her chair, Poppy reached for the kettle, and filled his teacup. She added a tea ball and the water blushed amber. Steam rose from the top.

"No. No, it can't. None of it can." 

"Nope," she agreed coolly.

"You failed her, too," he said, letting some of the anger inside him boil to the surface. "You were supposed to look after Melly while I was gone, but you weren't here. You left Sam to take care of her, and he was scared to death."

Poppy stared at the floor. Mulder picked up the silver chain on the tea ball, fiddling with it.

Eventually he said, "Which also can't be undone."

"Nope," she repeated. "Fox, I... I know I should have been here."

"I knew she shouldn't have been having another baby, regardless of what she wanted. Poppy, you and I can blame each other until Doomsday, but Melly's still gone. I can't bring her back. Not for me, not for you, and not for Sam. I met Dana and it..." He tried to put it into words she might understand. "It seemed right. And Emily... It seemed like a place to begin again. You act like I'm being disloyal to Melissa's memory but I'm not. I care for Dana, but it's not the same at all."

"I know; I change the bedsheets. It ain't the same at all."

"What do you mean?" 

She didn't answer, but her cheekbones stood out as she clenched her teeth. 

"How dare you!" he barked. "I don't think you have any room to judge Dana or our marriage. If you ever say anything like that again- How dare you!" he repeated, angry but still not quite believing his ears. Poppy could be plainspoken, but he'd never known her to be blatantly disrespectful.

She flinched, cowering in her chair the way Melissa had if he'd get upset. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding sincere. "But it's true. People are talking. They're laughing at you, Fox."

"What if they are? She's my wife," he said. "Dana's been kind to you, and you've barely been civil to her. Why are you so bent on hating her? Because you can't dictate her every move? Because she doesn't look to you to tell her what to say if someone asks 'How are you today, Mrs. Mulder?' She's not Melly. She can think for herself."

He closed his mouth, picked up his teacup, and slammed it down again without drinking it.

Poppy stood, tilting her chin up defiantly. "You don't own me, Fox. You don't tell me what to think. I think you're making a fool of yourself over a girl."

"No, I don't own you, but you don't own me either. I don't explain myself to you. It's my house, you work for me, and I've had enough of this. Dana's not a girl. She's my wife, in body and name, whether you or the rest of the city like it or not. You might as well stop prissing around like a jilted mistress."

Poppy grabbed her shawl and flung it around her shoulders. She picked up her basket and announced she was going to the market. She marched out of the kitchen and slammed the back door after her so hard the windows rattled. 

Mulder, King of Tact, laid his throbbing head on the table and sighed. Regardless of whatever bee she had in her bonnet, that might not have been the most fruitful way to handle that situation. 

The tea smelled nice, but the eggs made his stomach turn. He shoved the plate farther away in annoyance. As the back gate banged shut, Mulder heard his plate of undercooked eggs slide over the opposite edge of the kitchen table and crash to the floor.

Grace perked up as the plate broke. The dog waddled over to lick the liquid yolks off the floorboards. 

"I'm glad I could brighten someone's life," Mulder muttered.

Grace wagged twice, licked his chops, and returned to his hideout behind the stove.

*~*~*~*

Mulder tried to be quiet, but there wasn't much need; Dana would have slept through the burning of Rome.

He added a few logs to the fire so their bedroom was warm, and brought a basin of hot water upstairs and set it on the night stand. After some searching, Mulder found an unopened bar of floral-scented soap in the bathroom cupboard. He added a clean washcloth and a stack of towels to his collection, made some coffee, and limped back up the steps.

Dana opened her eyes as he ran the washcloth over her belly, leaving a wet trail behind. "What are you doing, Mr. Mulder?" she asked sleepily. 

"Making amends. I interrupted your bath last night," he answered, "Good morning."

"Good morning."

He wet the washcloth again, massaging it over her shoulders, neck, and breasts. 

"How is your foot?" she asked, but he shook his head, wanting her to be quiet.

Despite the fire, her nipples hardened and gooseflesh rose on her skin. The water glistened on her skin, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors. Her hair was still damp, and had tangled into a dark red mass of curls, making her look wild and primal. He squeezed the washcloth above her belly, watching the water stream over her hipbones and disappear between her thighs.

"Dana, you said I frightened you last night. I didn't mean to. I had too much to drink, had a bad dream, and I woke upset. I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It won't happen again." 

He'd rehearsed these lines, and hers was 'apology accepted.' Instead, she asked, "Why could you not tell me about Melissa?"

He stuttered, "I- I don't know. Because it was my fault. It's hard to talk about. I'd rather not talk about it. I wanted to apologize and make amends."

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head away. "How was it your fault? Because of Poppy's baby?"

"Was that the consensus last night?"

"What is that?"

"A consensus? People are in agreement. Was that what everyone said at dinner? Melly- It was because Poppy was my mistress? I fathered her child?"

"No, I have not heard anyone say that except you." 

He looked down, fiddling with the washcloth. "I told you, I'm not the father. I wasn't even in DC." He shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, Poppy is beautiful, but so was Melly. I've never been unfaithful to my wife."

"I was not accusing you. I was answering you about a consensus."

He rinsed the washcloth, sloshing the soapy water over the sides of the basin. There was a rusty smear of dried blood on the bottom sheet, and he dabbed it, realizing it was his. 

The blood on the sheet was his. The back of his aching brain tingled and an unexplained shiver ran down his spine. He blinked, dabbed it again, and shook his head, clearing it.

"I kissed her," he confessed. "Once. I was eighteen. My parents came to Harvard for a visit and brought Sam and Melly, and things didn't... Things didn't go well between Melly and I. I went to check on Sam, trying to calm down, and Poppy was nursing him. He was too old, but she still let him do it. We talked for a while in the darkness and, I don't know why, but I kissed her. No, I do know why. Anyway, I told her I was sorry and said it wouldn't happen again. It hasn't. It won't. I understand if you don’t want her running the house, but I do want her here for Sam.”

"Why?"

He slid each of his lips between his teeth, trying to formulate an answer since she obviously expected one. "Why did I kiss her?"

"No, why did you stop?"

"Oh." That was an easier, less embarrassing question to answer. "Poppy was Melly's father's slave. If she hadn't done what I wanted, I could have sent her back to Kavanaugh. She would have done anything to keep away from him. Including pretending she wanted me. I couldn't ask her to do that."

"Was she Melissa's father's mistress?"

"Probably," he answered. "If you'd call it that. She had a stillborn son before Sam came. That's how she wound up as his nurse."

Dana put one hand behind her head, staring at him in confusion. "But she was Melissa's half-sister?"

He nodded. He was learning being married to a bright, perceptive woman had its upsides and downsides. 

"But-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he said quickly. "I wanted to tell you I was sorry for getting angry. I brought you coffee, if you want it."

He swirled the washcloth around the basin, watching the rough white fabric glide through the water. 

"All right."

"Do you want your coffee?"

"No. Not yet."

He wrung the cloth out and rinsed it again, splattering drops of soapy water across the richly polished wood of the nightstand.

"Mr. Mulder, it is all right," she repeated, sitting up. She put her hand on his shoulder and slid both arms around his neck. "It is," she whispered. 

"I neglected to tell you a few things when I asked you to marry me."

She stroked his face, tracing his eyebrows and cheekbones with her thumbs. "You said you were not odd, which remains to be seen. You said you had a temper and curse; you were headstrong and demanding. You curled up and went to sleep when you drank. You said you liked children. You said you wanted me and cared for me and were not rough. That was all true. But I was relieved to find there were not bones in the house."

He pushed his eyebrows together, not sure he understood.

"You said there were skeletons in your closets."

He was probably being teased, but he wasn't certain. "It means there are secrets."

"Of course, I know now." She flicked her finger lightly against the tip of his nose. 

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" 

"Something very, very bad," she answered, pursing her lips in mock seriousness and looking like the lady-friend he'd made in the Georgia swamps. As much as he liked his new wife, he missed his friend.

"Dana, I also said, when I asked you to marry me, I would take care of you and Emily. Not the other way around."

"You have taken care of us. Look around. Could we possibly want for anything?"

"No, I don't mean with things. I mean..." He searched for the right way to say it. "You're strong, Dana. You don't share your secrets or yourself casually. I'm your husband, but sharing my bed isn't sharing yourself. Sometimes one bed is as far apart as two people can get. I know I get angry if you push me to talk, but I also know I need a push. The more I push you, the more you pull away. I suppose what I'm trying to say is... Yes, you're right: I'm hurting, but I know you're hurting, too. You have to be, but you're so good at not showing it. You said you'd tell me if you aren't all right, and I trust you will. If I don't hear you the first time, please tap me on the shoulder and tell me again. I can be a little dense."

He ran out of air and ramblings.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

She nodded. She leaned back on the pillows, like Aphrodite patiently waiting for Titian to paint her portrait.

"Do you? The hero is supposed to come charging in on his white horse and save the damsel in distress. Not the other way around."

"Mr. Mulder, I only let you save me in self-defense."

*~*~*~*

Mulder slipped easily into a pleasant routine with Dana. As he'd written to Melly, it was a lesser love, but still quite nice, and several steps above being alone. Gray autumn days blended into frigid winter nights, and 1865 went on as if life was real.

There was no sign of Sam, and the empty ache in Mulder’s heart grew as the chances of his son coming home dwindled to nonexistent. Dana asked about the carriage horses' names - D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis - so, without thinking, Mulder started for Sam's bedroom to retrieve a copy of "The Three Musketeers." He stared at the door but turned away without touching the knob.

Lewis Carroll published "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland," and Mark Twain's short story "The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" was well received. Mulder read both to Dana, and she listened, sitting beside the hearth as she mended clothes. 

Emily mastered rolling over and started working on crawling. Her hair stayed blonde, her eyes blue, and strangers stopped calling her 'him.' People  
unfailingly said she looked like Mulder, but babies were like clouds: people saw what they wanted to.

A telegraph line linked India and Europe. Messages could be telegraphed from London to Bombay in less than four minutes. The Great Eastern, the ship they'd honeymooned on, prepared to leave New York to lay the first trans-Atlantic telegraph cable. As the ship was refitted, a man's skeleton was found inside the hull. The remains of the unfortunate worker were buried, and reports of mysterious tapping sounds came to an end.

The Evening Star did what it was known for: it printed the truth about Washington's finest and foulest, which infuriated his Uncle Spender. The palms Spender tried to grease were the same ones whose prints were all over the scandals and corruptions The Star reported. At a party, his stepfather angrily observed Mulder spent more time in his wife than in his office. Mulder told him to go to Hell.

Congressman Thaddeus Stephens suggested the estates of former Confederate leaders be confiscated and divided into forty-acre plots for freed slaves. A great deal of property was seized, a great deal of money was made, and little of either made it to the ex-slaves.

Mulder paid the taxes on Waterston's plantation and transferred the title, ensuring Dori and Benjamin wouldn't be evicted. Acting on Dana's behalf, he sold Waterston's other house in Savannah to the government, which had soldiers living there anyway, and put the money aside for Emily. He also had Dana’s mail forwarded, and received two worn envelopes from the Savannah post office. 

The first letter was from Waterston to Dana, which Mulder opened, read, resealed, and gave to her. It was the same note most soldiers wrote - vague, optimistic - saying he loved and missed Dana and hoped to be home soon. The war was going well, according to Waterston, and he mentioned having recently met Dana in Savannah. The weekend had been 'quite enjoyable, Puss,' and, from the date on the postmark, had been about the time Emily was conceived. After the war, the letter must have sat in a forgotten mailbag until some Federal bureaucrat thought to forward it. Dana opened it in front of Mulder, read it, moving her lips as she did. She put it away without comment. If she ever looked at it again, Mulder didn't see her.

The other envelope came addressed to Dr. Daniel Waterston, Sr., care of the Confederate Army, and postmarked in New Orleans in April. Mulder opened it, confirming his suspicions. He'd told Dana men who kept placage mistresses usually had white wives. Dori was the mistress and Nina was the wife, writing to ask when her husband was coming home. Mulder told Dana he was searching for Sam, but instead made a trip to the French Quarter. A girl with long black braids answered the door, accompanied by teenage boy Mulder took to be Daniel Waterston, Jr. Nina was a gracious, trusting Spanish matron who invited Mulder for tea since he claimed to be her husband's business associate. Mulder declined tea, told Dana his trip had been fruitless, and locked Nina's letter in his desk without mentioning it to Dana.

Major Henry Witz, commandant of Andersonville Prison in Georgia, was hanged in DC. Witz was the only Confederate executed by the US Government for war crimes, and the story made the front page of most newspapers, including The Evening Star. It was estimated more Federal soldiers died in Andersonville of disease and starvation than in the battles of Gettysburg and Antietam combined. 13,000 graves were identified, but thousands more were unmarked.

At his mother's urging, Mulder and Dana joined her at the opera for Rigoletto. Dana wore a black dress trimmed with brown velvet ribbon. Mulder shielded his eyes, claiming its brightness blinded him.

That night, Mulder accidentally told Dana “I love you” during intercourse but assured himself a man loved anything he had his cock so deep inside, and never mentioned it again. He had no idea what Dana whispered to him, since she whispered it in Gaelic. What sounded like sweet nothings in his ear could have been “hurry up and get this over with” or “get off my hair” for all he knew. It still sounded nice.

Thirteenth Amendment, introduced before the Civil War, was ratified, making President Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation into law. Slavery was abolished as a legal institution in the United States and all its territories. No provision was made for Negroes to vote, hold property, or be granted any privileges of US citizenship.

Six former Confederate officers in Pulaski, Tennessee formed the Ku Klux Klan. Their invisible empire of vigilante justice and terrorism spread throughout the South like wildfire.

Ivan Sechenov published "Reflexes of the Brain," an article on the physiological basis of psychic phenomena.

One morning, before Christmas, Mulder woke Dana by crawling back into bed and whispering it was snowing outside. They laid there for an hour, skin to skin underneath the covers, silent, and watched the white flakes drifting down.

"Do you think you're going to have a baby?" he asked, more exhaling sounds than whispering. Though he understood the causal relationship between sexual intercourse and pregnancy, it hadn't occurred to him it might apply in this situation.

"No. I think it was something I ate. Perhaps that chowder at Harvey’s Restaurant. I feel better now."

"You're sure?" he asked. "You don't want me to get the doctor?"

"I am sure."

"All right. As long as you're well." 

She laced her fingers through his and pulled his arms tight around her. "You wanted me to say yes." She said it as a statement, not a question, though he'd never mentioned wanting more children. "You want another baby. A son."

"No. Not really. Really, I want the son I have to come home."

*~*~*~* 

End: Paracelsus VI

Begin - Paracelsus VII

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa, 

There are people in this world who live moment by moment, never thinking beyond their next meal, dollar, or drink. We call them simple and coarse, but sometimes I envy them. Wouldn't it be wonderful to not know, and to not know you did not know?

I imagine I can see the perplexed crease forming between your pretty eyebrows. Don't make that face, honey. It's one of my “romantic notions,” as Father called them. Pay me no mind.

We wellborn gentlemen spend our lives scheming tomorrow, fighting the future, and I wonder if it does any good. Some would say not. Some would say fate is set the moment a baby first draws breath. There is no free will. God choreographs destiny like an intricate ballet, and we are all his dancers. Please play along, Mr. Mulder; follow the program.

Some would say that is not true; each life is a clean slate and a new roll of the dice. God sets the world in motion, but steps back and watches, hopeful, expectant, but he does not interfere. There are infinite variables, infinite futures. Each moment, we make choices - from choosing which cravat matches my vest to choosing which woman matches my soul - and those choices add up to a life.

And what do I think? 

Let me explain it this way: there is no new water in the world. No more, and no less. The same liquid in my glass has passed the lips of Julius Caesar, of Genghis Kahn, of Charlemagne, of Egyptian pharaohs and Druid priests and Chinese concubines and DC pickpockets. It is not an appetizing thought, but it is true. Water - steam, liquid, ice - changes form, but it is eternal.

I think life is the same: the same elements reforming again and again. Some bonds are strong, some are weak, but the elements do not change. I feel an instinctive pull toward certain people, like iron shavings to a magnet. You were one; Dana is another.

I have known Dana before; I would swear it. I am at ease with her, as though she has always known and kept my secrets. I watch her and wonder, were you my mistress in some life? My confidant? How many nights have we shared now only dim memories? Or am I feeling old urges from impulses never acted upon? Were you another man's wife I coveted, Dana? A woman I could not have? Who were we that my soul knows yours?

I knew Sarah. I knew her with every fiber of my being. And I knew you, Melly. It was an instinct - to protect you. My only explanation is in some past lifetime, I tried to save you and failed, as I failed in this one.

Sometimes the bonds are weaker, but there. We passed a tall gentleman on the street, his brown eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles intent on his newspaper and his long black topcoat fluttering from his broad shoulders. I thought, do I know you? Have I known you? Were we meant to stop, to speak, to become friends? Or enemies? Who are you that I should recognize you, and yet do not? He glanced at Dana and me and nodded tersely. I nodded back, and we walked on. In this lifetime, an opportunity was lost. 

It frightens me. One would think there were enough monsters and horrors in this lifetime I wouldn't worry about others but trust me to seek them out.

What did I do in the past to fail you, Melly? Surely, I wouldn't walk by you on the street without stopping, but it is possible. I am Fox Mulder - prone to stargazing, after all, and I doubt that is a new trait. How many lifetimes have passed since we last met? One? Ten? Ten thousand? When we meet again, will I recognize you? When I feel an odd sensation of deja vu in my belly, will I have the sense to heed it? Or will I blame it on a bad bowl of clam chowder and walk on?

I think of the people I care for and chant to myself do not forget, do not forget, do not forget. Did I do that in some past life? As I drew my last breath, did I look at the face above mine and chant do not forget, do not forget? If I did, who was it I wanted so badly to remember?

I recognized Dana. My soul knew hers, though she would laugh if I told her.

I am rambling and boring you, I know. Sarah would grab my ankle and jerk me back to Earth before I floated off to dreamland. She would say I am looking for patterns and answers in a cruelly random and incomprehensible world. She would say I am not talking about you or Dana or anyone except Samuel. She would say I am assuring myself I will see him in our next lifetime because I no longer believe I will see him again in this one.

There. I wrote it in pen so I cannot erase.

I need to go, honey. A train leaves for Georgia at five, and I need to be on it. I will let you know what I find.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

His father wanted Mulder to be a soldier. Bill Mulder attended West Point, as had his father before him. Their family fought in the French and Indian war, the American Revolution, the War of 1812, the war with Mexico, and any other time someone demanded honor, bravery, and a sword or a musket.

No married man was admitted to West Point, nor could a cadet marry before he graduated. By marrying Melissa, Mulder forfeited his admission. He graduated a year early and at the top of his class at Harvard, but it wasn't the same. He gave his father a healthy grandson, a beautiful daughter-in-law, and built a successful, respectable business, but it wasn't the same. 

Unlike southern soldiers, who enlisted or got drafted for the duration of the war, men in the north fought for set periods - some for a few months. They could reenlist, but most didn't. Most served their time, counted their blessings they survived, and went home to their families. 

Mulder joined the cavalry at Lincoln’s called for soldiers in April 1861 and, except for being wounded, two Christmases, and Melly's death, served continuously until May 1865, when the victorious Federal Army marched through Washington DC in the Grand Review. He started the war as a captain and ended as a colonel with a collection of medals and commendations to make his father proud, had his father lived to see them.

In the fall of 1864, General Sherman captured Atlanta. He quartered his 64,000 men there and ordered the city burned as he left. After Atlanta, he marched his army southeast toward Savannah and the Georgia coast, leveling everything in his path and cutting the Confederacy in two. Total war; scorched earth. Destroy every factory, bridge, railroad, barn, and house. Confiscate or destroy all livestock, cotton, and food. Instead of attacking the enemy's army, decimate the population supplying the enemy's army.

The plan was brilliant, but implementing it was nauseatingly real. Most citizens fled as the Federal troops advanced, but a few on the outskirts of Atlanta refused to go. It fell to Mulder's men to get them out. Or to burn the roofs over their heads; General Sherman wasn't particular. 

"She won't leave, sir," Mulder’s lieutenant informed him. The lieutenant had to raise voice to be heard over the fires and the horses-drawn cannons and mortars rolling past. The infantry was miles away, but the soldiers still moved the last of the artillery out of the city. 

The air was thick with smoke, stinging Mulder’s eyes and blurring his vision. Shadow fidgeted nervously. They'd destroyed the last of the warehouses at the edge of town, and the flames spread quickly to the nearby wooden houses. 

"Tell her she doesn't have a choice," Mulder answered absently. He turned the anxious horse in a circle, watching the inferno.

None of it was real, anyway. Mulder returned to his regiment after Melissa's funeral, and he registered the burning city the same way he registered coffee. It was hot. Bitter. He closed his eyes thinking the nightmare might be over when he opened them again. 

It never was.

"I've explained, sir. She won't leave," the lieutenant repeated, coughing. Mulder must have looked like he'd forgotten what they discussed because the young man added, "An old woman. She says it's her home and she'd rather die than leave it."

"So let her," another of the officers muttered.

"Sir?" the lieutenant asked. 

"Oh, Goddamn it!" Mulder snapped in annoyance. He swung down from his saddle. "Where is she?"

His men indicated a modest yellow house at the end of the street. The paint on one side blistered from the heat.

"Ma'am," Mulder called. He pounded on the front door and pushed it open when he heard no answer. The interior was cluttered, fussy, and bathed in orange light from the flames outside the windows. 

"Ma'am!" He turned to the young soldier at his heels. "I thought you said she was in here. Where is she?"

The lieutenant pointed to the stairs. Mulder trudged up the staircase, cursing under his breath.

"Ma'am, you have to leave," he said tiredly. He reached the second floor, knocked, and stuck his head into the first room. "We'll escort you out of the city. We don't mean you any harm, but you have to leave. We're-"

The gray-haired lady saw a Yankee in her bedroom and started screaming. He sighed again. He had no plan to rape an old woman today, but she must believe he could add it to his list: mourn dead wife, worry about family, destroy city, rape elderly spinster.

"Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you. My men aren't going to hurt you, but you do have to leave. You're not safe here. Please come with me."

She clutched her shawl around her and jabbered unintelligibly, terrified. For some reason, put a blue uniform on a man and southern women thought he forgot his manners. A few men did, but most, like Mulder, wanted to do their duty and go home to what remained of their lives. They hadn't started this war, but they were eager to finish it.

Mulder offered his hand and she backed away, getting even more hysterical. He tried to take her by the arm, but she kicked him in the shin, calling him a "dirty, yellow-bellied bastard" - probably the foulest curse she knew. 

Mulder stared at her for a few seconds, hands on his hips, as flames consumed the neighboring house. He tilted his head, debating. He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her down the stairs as she kicked and shrieked. She bit his back in desperation, but she couldn't do more than bruise through his wool uniform.

By the time he reached the front porch, she'd gone limp, fainting in terror and thankfully removing her teeth from his flesh. Mulder stood at the edge of the street, watching the draft horses pull the cannons out of the city, with her faded skirt fluttering against his arm and her bony pelvis cutting into his shoulder. He'd lost his cap somewhere, and the waves of heat rustled his hair. Sweat ran between his shoulder blades and his boots pinched, intended for riding, not walking. The roof of a house across the street collapsed, sending smoke and sparks into the opaque sky.

He looked at the hellish blaze, and at the young, expectant faces of his men, who awaited his order to evacuate. He didn't even know most of his soldiers' names anymore. Of his original thousand-man regiment, less than four hundred remained; the rest were new recruits or draftees. 

A wagon of wounded passed with a teenage soldier sitting at the back, facing away from the driver and watching his boots dangle over the open tail-gate as the wheels bumped through the ruts. The boy raised his smoke-smudged face, staring at Mulder from underneath his long, black hair.

"Sam?" Mulder called incredulously. "My God! Samuel?"

The handsome boy continued watching him, his gaze old and expressionless. Mulder followed the wagon, dodging through the soldiers and artillery, and still carrying the unconscious woman over his shoulder.

"Sam, are you hurt? What are you doing here? Why aren't you with Grandfather? He must be frantic. Did you run away?"

"Grandfather's dead," his son answered numbly.

Mulder stopped, stunned. A group of officers reined their horses sharply to keep from running over him.

No, that wasn't real, either.

Mulder got his feet to move again. "I want you to go home, son," he ordered. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

Sam nodded no.

"Who's your commanding officer? I'll talk to him and he'll let you leave. Go home, Sam. Everything will be fine."

Samuel stared through him, unseeing. His mother was dead by her own hand; the promise of "fine" no longer existed in his world. Mulder couldn't blame him; he didn't believe his own assurances anymore, either.

Mulder heard a hiss nearby. He tensed out of habit but stayed on his feet with the old woman over his shoulder. The explosion came from down the block, and chaos erupted. Horses panicked, throwing their riders or bolting away from their drivers. Soldiers ran for cover as black smoke billowed and ash rained down. Mulder coughed, but he waved his free hand, trying to clear the air. His nose and throat were coated with the peppery scent and taste of gunpowder; one of the burning warehouses must have had munitions hidden inside.

The huge wheel of one of the 1200-pound Napoleon cannons bumped his shoulder, forcing him aside. 

"Samuel," Mulder yelled, trying to see through the smoke. "Sammy!"

"We have to go, sir," one of his men called. The weight of the old woman's body lifted from Mulder's shoulder. "Everyone's out, and the fire's spreading. I have her. Let's go! Sir? I have her. We have to go, sir!"

A private brought his horse, who wasn't happy about the flames, either. Mulder stood in the stirrups, trying to see, and circling Shadow so he wouldn't bolt. The wagon Samuel sat in was gone. There were two more explosions in rapid succession. More gunpowder. Barrels of it. Panicking, drivers cut their draft horses' harnesses, mounted and, leaving the last dozen cannons behind, made a run for it.

Confident Sam was out of harm's way, Mulder gave the order to evacuate. Behind them, Atlanta blazed like a volcano exploding into the night sky.

"There's a wagon of wounded with the artillery. Find the wagon," he ordered as they caught up with the rear of the vast army. "There's a teenage boy in it named Samuel. Bring him to me."

His captain wrinkled his forehead in disbelief. "The wounded left the city first thing, sir. They weren't with the artillery."

"No, I saw a wagon, and it was with the artillery. Find it. Find the boy. Samuel Mulder."

But they never did. 

*~*~*~*

A warm hand jostled Mulder and caressed his face as he woke. The book of Walt Whitman's poems lay open on his chest, and the bedside lamp still glowed softly. He remained nude beneath the covers, and he must have fallen asleep reading. Outside, the icy wind whistled against the eaves, making him shiver despite the blankets.

"You were having a bad dream," Dana whispered, soothing him. "A nightmare. Calling for Samuel. You are awake now, Mr. Mulder."

He nodded, trying to get his bearings and partially succeeding. He was awake, but he still heard fire crackling in the background. Dana was with him, so Melly was dead. He wouldn't have to tell Melly he'd lost Sam.

"Tell me about your dream," she requested, and leaned over him to blow out the lamp.

Mulder shook his head, and she didn't ask again. 

He rolled away, putting his back to her. He stared at the bedroom door and shifted restlessly until he got up. Thinking she was asleep, he sat on the chaise lounge in front of the bedroom window, arms around his knees, and watched out the dark window. The wind blew the sleet against the glass panes, making insistent little tapping sounds as though desperate to be let in.

Dana got up and came to him. She rested her hand on Mulder’s shoulder, acting as though there was nothing unusual in him sitting naked by the window in the middle of the night.

"You will find him," she said quietly. "Wherever he is, whatever has happened. You will. Someday, you will know."

He didn't answer. It was worse late at night. Mulder’s imagination got the better of him, and there was so much darkness to sift through with so little reason. 

"He won't come home tonight." Mulder watched the sleet thoughtfully. "It's too cold. He'll stay someplace warm."

"No, I do not think he will come tonight. Come back to bed."

"I should keep watch," he answered. "In case."

"No, come to bed. He knows the way," she assured him.

She took his hand, getting him to move. When they reached the bed, he stood still, the smoky haze of his dream still clouding his mind.

Dana traced her fingertips across his shoulders and down his arms, barely touching. She brushed her lips over his throat, across his collarbone, and to his chest, teasing his nipple with her teeth and tongue. His body reacted automatically, shifting from the physiological, watchful arousal of his dream to sexual arousal.

"...don't have to do this," he whispered. 

"It is all right," she murmured. She guided him back onto the mattress and gently worked her way down his body with her mouth. “I want you to sleep.”

He had let her do this before - the French style of intercourse. Once until his orgasm came, even. According to Frohike, this act cost ten times the normal rate in a whorehouse, and according to every church in town, it bought a fellow a ticket straight to Hell. It was wonderful and wicked and something else a proper wife should never know existed.

"Don't," he repeated after a moment, and told her instead, "Lie back."

Tonight, he wanted to be as close to her as possible. He wanted to feel every inch of her skin against his. Have her arms around him, breath against him, her heart pressing against his. 

"You're... I care," he confessed through clenched teeth, sliding inside her. She was still slick from a few hours earlier, but less aroused than he. He waited, giving her body time to adjust to his. "For you. I do. You know, don't you?"

Mulder needed her to understand his gratitude. To her. For her. Not for marrying him, but for being his friend. He had loved her both politely and more passionately than decency and the law allowed, but he was grateful for more than the physical intimacy. Dana cared for him however she could, whenever he needed her. She made his world comfortable, bearable: two places at the dinner table, four legs in a warm bed, and one more chance.

"I know," she whispered back, relaxing into the pillows and letting him not think inside her. Mercifully, his universe was condensed to the narrow space between her thighs, and there was nothing else for what remained of the cold night.

*~*~*~* 

Mulder paused on the back porch, watching through the window before he entered. Dana sat at the kitchen table, and the cook stood at the stove, stirring the stockpot as they talked. Chicken simmered harmoniously with onions, carrots, and celery; the aroma was so thick Mulder could taste it. Grace was on alert, watching for spills. Holding onto Dana's skirt, Emily pulled herself up, clutching the fabric tightly with her little fists. She let go, considered taking a step on her own, but decided against it and grabbed hold again. Dana put one hand on her daughter's back, rubbing affectionately. 

As he opened the back door, the two women and Grace looked up in surprise. They wouldn’t have expected Mulder for another hour at the earliest. Delighted, Emily flopped down on her padded bottom and raised her arms, babbling for "Dah-dah-dah-dah." 

"Upstairs," Mulder ordered Dana. He scooped Emily up and walked on without looking back. He heard the cook tap her spoon sharply on the edge of the pot in disapproval, but Dana's chair squeak against the floor as she stood.

"You are home early," Dana said uncertainly. She trotted up the steps after him. "Are you all right? Is something wrong?"

He held the bedroom door open but closed and locked it after her.

Dana swallowed at the latch slid into place. She watched warily as he paced the length of their bedroom, carrying Emily with him.

"What is wrong, Mr. Mulder?" she asked again, her voice softer. "What has happened?"

"I'm taking a trip. Pack my things. No suits. Rough clothes: boots, denim trousers, work shirts. My train leaves in an hour."

"All- All right," she answered apprehensively. "Another trip. Would you rather Poppy-"

"I want you to do it. I'll tell Poppy I'm going to New York on business. Don't tell her differently until I return."

Dana took a leather satchel from the wardrobe and set it on the dresser. She began filling it efficiently. Normally, she'd object to being ordered around like a servant, but this time she didn't.

"Cotton," he told her as she opened a dresser drawer. "Not wool. I'll be in Georgia. It's spring there."

"Where in Georgia?" she asked.

"Andersonville. It was a P.O.W. camp during the war."

"Do you think you have found Samuel? Or are you looking?"

"I think I've found a William Samuels. Private. Age thirteen. He was a prisoner at the camp. Captured by Confederate scouts September 10th." Mulder took a breath and he added, "Died November 15, 1864 of typhoid."

She stopped folding a shirt. "You told me you saw last Samuel in Atlanta with General Sherman's men."

"I saw him leaving the city with our army. November 15, 1864."

"William Samuels could not be your son. He could not have been at Andersonville. How could he be in two places at the same time?"

"Sam said my father had died. I heard him. I was yelling at Sam to go home to his grandfather, and he said, 'Grandfather's dead.' He said it. I know what I heard."

She shook her head, not understanding.

"He said it November 15, 1864. My father died during the siege of Richmond. April 1, 1865. Five months later, Dana. Father was alive when our army left Atlanta."

"I don't-"

"Maybe I didn't see my son, Dana. I saw a ghost. A doppelganger. A death omen. Maybe Sam died in Andersonville. I wrote to Clara Barton, the nurse who sorted through the prison's records - to make sure - and she telegraphed back there was a William Samuels on the death roster."

He pulled the telegram out of his pocket, thrusting it at her like the words were her fault.

"Miss Barton offered her condolences.” He fastened the half-packed satchel with one hand and held Emily on his hip with the other. "My regiment rode past Andersonville. We were twenty miles away, but we never stopped. We were too intent on capturing Atlanta. Miss Barton's condolences make me feel so much better," he said bitterly.

Dana bit her lower lip. "Do you want me to go with you? Let me pack some things for Emily and we will go with you."

He shook his head tersely. "No. Stay here. Take care of Emmy. Here - take her. Don't tell Poppy until I know for certain. I'll be home in a week."

"How will you be certain?"

"We're opening the grave. Miss Barton has located it, and I sent a telegram to the judge, asking permission. The judge was a friend of my father's; he'll grant it. I need to go, Dana."

"My God! Listen to yourself! Do not do this to yourself. Even if-"

"I'll be home in a week," he repeated, and walked out of their bedroom without looking back.

*~*~*~*

Although he'd rather she hadn't, Poppy met Mulder in the front hall before the Hansom cab was out of the driveway. She took his hat and satchel and asked about his business trip.

Mulder didn't respond except to ask, "Where's Dana?"

"In the nursery. She-"

Mulder held up his hand, not interested in a litany of the things she believed Dana did wrong in the last week. Poppy had a long list of grievances against Dana, 99% of which boiled down to Dana not being Melly.

"Are you hungry?" Poppy called as he trudged up the stairs. "Fox?"

He shook his head and kept walking. 

The nursery door stood open, and Dana put Emily down for her afternoon nap. Mulder leaned against the doorframe. Dana looked up. He turned away, continuing to their bedroom.

He sat heavily on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head hanging tiredly, fingertips pressed against his forehead. He felt beaten. Empty. If keeping his heart and lungs pumping had required effort, he couldn't have managed it.

He heard Dana enter and close the door behind her. "Please go away," he requested, not raising his head.

"What did you find? Was it- In Andersonville, did you..."

"I found a dead body. What do you think I'd find? The Holy Grail? Go away, Dana."

He'd handled it all so well: supervising the excavation, watching the undertaker examine the decomposed corpse of a teenage boy. Andersonville Prison was now Andersonville National Cemetery, so he'd chosen a proper coffin instead of the sheet the body had been wrapped in, and had a minister preside at the burial, re-interring the body among the endless rows of stark white headstones. Afterward, he'd calmly caught the train back to DC. He'd bought a newspaper and held it open in front of him as the hours passed, because gentlemen read papers on trains. Mulder couldn't remember one word in that paper.

"Was it Samuel?"

"Why do you care? It's not your son."

"I care because he is your son."

Ashamed of himself, he didn't respond. He massaged his forehead, trying to get his headache to subside. If he pressed his fingers against his eyelids, he saw orange and red and black swirling patterns, like watching flames at night. It hurt, but at least it felt like something.

"Sit back," Dana's voice asked softly. "I will help you undress and you can lie down. You will be more comfortable. You can rest."

"For God's sake! Goddamn it, I don't need your help! Stop pestering me and go a-" He glanced at her, seeing the compassion in her eyes. "Dana, I'm sorry."

"No, I am sorry. I am."

She knelt on the floor in front of him, unbuttoning his vest and shirt. As she pushed the wrinkled fabric back from his shoulders, there was a soft knock at the bedroom door. Poppy entered, asking if he was all right.

"You may go," Dana answered. She unbuttoned his cuffs and stripped off his sleeves, and his undershirt so he was bare from the waist up. Mulder moved like a sleepy child, minimally cooperative. "Poppy, you can leave for the day. Everyone can. Please tell them. We'd like to be alone this evening."

Poppy stepped into the bedroom like she belonged there, ignoring Dana. "Fox? What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Poppy, go home," Dana repeated sternly. 

"Something's wrong. He needs me."

"I'm okay," Mulder mumbled, his voice sounding foreign to him. "Dana will take care of me."

Poppy shook her head. "I'll make coffee and-" 

"He's not your husband and he doesn't need you. Do as he told you. Get out of our bedroom, take your daughter, and go home!" Dana snapped.

After a pause, the bedroom door closed. Poppy's angry footsteps faded away down the hall.

"She's going to put one of her voodoo spells on you," he warned tiredly, filling silence. 

"If voodoo worked, you would be in love with her ten times over," Dana responded crisply.

He tried to chuckle, but failed. He bit his trembling lower lip as the dam around his heart began to crack. "It's not him, Dana," he mumbled. "It's not."

"It was not Samuel?"

He shook his head slowly. "It's not," he repeated. He bit his lip harder as his nose began to drip. "Blond hair. Not Sam. Not my boy." 

"Oh, thank God."

He shook his head again. His chin began to tremble uncontrollably. "Not my Sammy. He's somebody's boy, but not mine. Mine's still out there somewhere."

He looked up, his face crumpling and tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. 

"Please go away," he repeated miserably, but she wouldn't. As shameful as crying was, it was even worse to do it in front of a woman. And as angry as it made him, Mulder couldn't stop. 

"I am sorry," she whispered again.

Dana tried to wipe his cheeks, but he jerked away. He wanted to shout at her she didn't understand and she wasn't sorry because she didn't know what he felt - but she knew exactly what he felt.

"Would it be easier if it had been him?" she asked quietly. "Is that what bothers you? You wanted it to be Samuel? As awful as it would have been, it would have been an answer? It would have been over?"

He nodded, swallowed, swallowed again, and started to sob. He leaned forward again and covered his head with both hands, as though trying to shield himself from stones hurled at him. Dana slid him awkwardly from the sofa to the floor, holding him as he cried. She stroked his hair, whispering like he was a child and ignoring him every time he stopped sobbing to yell at her to go away.

Eventually, his protests dwindled to weak sobs that soaked the shoulder of her dress, were absorbed into her skin, and went no farther. This was their sanctuary. He kept her secrets, and she kept his. 

"I paid for a funeral for someone else's son." Mulder raised his face and squinted at the yellow light streaming through their bedroom window. "Flowers, a minister, a coffin, everything. How foolish."

Her fingers continued stroking his hair.

"There are others. Four hundred and sixty other graves, so far. The ones Miss Barton couldn't identify - their headstones say 'unknown Union soldier.' He might be one of them, but I couldn't check."

"Mr. Mulder, please tell me you did not ask the judge for permission to excavate four hundred and sixty graves. No, never mind. Of course, you did."

"One of them could be Sam."

"Let one of them be. Please. Choose a grave and mourn it, but stop doing this to yourself. He is not coming home. You would never have married me if you truly believed Samuel would come home. He is in God's hands, not yours. Stop holding onto a ghost and let him be at peace. Let yourself be at peace."

His temper kindled but was snuffed out for lack of fuel. She was the first person who had the courage to say those words to him: he's not coming home.

"Miss Barton's setting up an office in DC. People can send her information about missing soldiers, and she'll match those names with death records, casualty lists. I told her I'd pay the rent on her office. As she compiles them, I'll print her lists of the dead in the paper, free of charge."

He didn't know why he was telling Dana. He was a grown man and it was his money. He didn't need her permission.

"Miss Barton will tell you only if she is sure she has found Samuel? If she is certain? She will not send you off on more wild goose chases?"

He nodded tiredly, and let his head fall back and rest on the sofa cushion so he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyelids over his throbbing eyes, listening to his heartbeat deep inside his ears. The sound was hypnotic, lulling him like the ocean. He obeyed mindlessly as Dana had him crawl up on the sofa and stretch out. She pulled off his boots, put a cool, wet cloth on his forehead, covered him with a blanket, and let him sleep. 

When he woke, the bedroom was dark, and Dana and Emily were asleep on the bed. Mulder shucked his trousers off and joined them, pulling them close so they couldn't get away.

*~*~*~*

He passed the florist's shop every day, but the next morning, for the first time in ages, he stopped. While Melly adored getting flowers, Mulder thought Dana might find it silly, especially from him.

"Pink roses, Mr. Mulder?" the florist asked as Mulder stepped inside, recalling his usual order. He'd once been a good customer.

"White," he decided, and took the card and pen the man offered. "To my house, please."

For Melly, he'd written "I love you" and signed his name. Not overly imaginative, but she'd never read the message, anyway. For Dana, though, he looked at the blank card uncertainly, and fell back on Whitman, paraphrasing:

"Silence, the flippant expression, the darkness, the accustomed routine - if these conceal me from others or from myself, they do not conceal me from you. Underneath them and within them, you see me lurk. I whisper with my lips close to your ear, 'I have cared for others, but I care for none better than you.' M."

The florist stood ready to blot the ink and assured Mulder the roses would be delivered within the hour. "Are you finished with the card, sir?"

Mulder hummed thoughtfully, holding it in midair and considering. He read it again, analyzing all the possible interpretations. He didn't mind people laughing at him, but he minded looking foolish in front of Dana. A simple 'Thank you. I'm sorry. M.' would have sufficed and been much safer.

"Sir, is there an error? Did you want to rewrite it?"

"No," Mulder answered, and laid the card on the counter.

*~*~*~*

Mulder was the product of the highest class of a rigidly stratified society, and he shared many of its beliefs: the sacredness of marriage and family; honor above all else; duty to God and country. What he lacked was polite hypocrisy. Mulder seldom set out to turn the world on its ear, but he seemed to. He was a truth-teller in a culture that didn't like being confronted with the truth. Women didn't have legs, they had limbs, and menus listed chicken bosoms instead of breasts. Where babies came from, no one knew. Apparently, there was a pandemic of virgin births.

Confronted with a logical, intelligent argument, he listened, and that had his stepfather's drawers in a twist this morning. The Evening Star printed an editorial by a woman writer, under the woman writer's name. Not a ladylike piece on fashion, or a florid, laughable serial romance, but an editorial on women's suffrage. Congress rumbled about an amendment giving ex-slaves the right to vote - male ex-slaves, not females - and Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton took issue. Mulder was lukewarm on women voting, but he thought she made a good argument and printed her article.

And Uncle Spender decided to object.

Mulder propped his elbow on his desk, his chin on his elbow, and tried to look interested instead of amused. The editorial ran the day Mulder left for Andersonville, so the tirade was pointless. It was a week too late to stop the presses. A stack of articles and invoices and correspondence three inches high sat on his desk, and Mulder itched to sort through it as he pretended to listen.

Spender had worked himself into a tizzy, pacing and sputtering about propriety and decency until little specks of saliva formed in the corners of his mouth. 

"Are you listening?" Spender demanded.

"Yes. I'm single-handedly destroying the most sacred foundations of our society. Debasing the holy bastions of motherhood and femininity. Disgracing my family. Angels are weeping. Please go on." 

Spender continued his rant, not catching Mulder's sarcasm.

Starting to get bored, Mulder tilted his head to see out his office door, looking for something requiring his immediate attention. As luck would have it, his secretary approached. Mulder gave him a plaintive look.

"Mr. Mulder, your wife is here."

"Oh," Mulder answered, playing along. "Thank you. Make her comfortable and I'll be right out. Uncle, if you'll excuse me-" Mulder stood, walked around his desk, and headed for the door. "We can continue this another time."

"I'll wait."

Mulder huffed in annoyance. He needed his office; he had a week's worth of work waiting. He stood in the lobby, hands on his hips, trying to think what he would do. To his surprise, he saw his secretary talking with Dana, taking her coat and gesturing for her to sit down on the bench near the front door.

"Dana?" Mulder said, quickly crossing the busy lobby. "Is everything all right? My God, what's wrong? Is Emmy all right?" 

She been to his office once, when they first married, and it wasn't like her to appear for no reason. Unlike Melly, Dana rarely had a crisis. If she did, Dana handled it and told Mulder afterward.

"Emily is fine. Everything is fine. I wanted to talk to you."

"All right."

She glanced at the people milling past. "In private." 

"All right," Mulder repeated, starting to get nervous. If she was angry enough to come to his office, he was in trouble. He remembered the roses - and the note - he'd sent a few hours earlier. His collar started feeling tight.

Byers' office was vacant, so Mulder guided her inside and closed the door. He waited, trying to look nonchalant. His nonchalant façade lasted at least three seconds. "All right; I'm listening," he said impatiently. He fiddled with a handful of loose metal type on Byers' desk, rearranging the letters.

"You are not listening, Mr. Mulder. You look like the rancher is castrating the bull calves, and you are the next one waiting in the pen."

"You never learned the English word 'consensus' but you learned the word 'castrating'?" He shifted his hips as he leaned back against the edge of the desk.

"You are busy. I am sorry. I should not have come. We can talk later."

"Dana, you're here. Yes, I'm busy, but it's obviously important. What is it you want to talk about?"

Aside from him making a blubbering fool of himself the previous afternoon. And acting on whatever romantic notion had seized him this morning. Castrate was the proper word. He should get her a velvet case to keep his testicles in since he wasn't using them.

"No, we can talk later."

"No, we can talk now," he responded, annoyed with the butterflies in his stomach. "Whatever's on your mind, say it. I'll apologize, say I don't know what I was thinking, and promise it won't happen again."

"I am to have a baby."

"Oh." He moved his lips silently. His knees felt weak, so he sat on the top of Byers' desk, staring at her in wonder. "Not another bad bowl of Harvey's chowder?" 

"We have not had dinner at Harvey's Restaurant in months."

"What I mean is, are you certain?"

"I was certain before, but I saw the doctor. Yes, I am certain."

"Oh," he said again. A broad smile spread across his face as her news sunk in. "Oh my God. You're to have a baby. We're going to have a baby. My God - sit down." He hopped down from the desk and shoved a stack of files off a wooden chair, offering it to her. "How far?"

"Two months."

"Two months – a, a winter baby. Early next winter. Christmas. Sit down, Dana."

"I do not need to sit down. I feel fine."

"Sit down. Make me feel better. I don't feel fine."

Dana sat down. She smoothed her skirt and looked at him like babies were a perfectly normal part of life. No matter how many times a woman conveyed those words to him - Melly in tears, terrified with Samuel, and euphoric when she'd written to him years later, and now - the news was still awe-inspiring.

"You're certain?" he asked again.

"Yes, I am certain."

He stared at her like she might look differently than few hours earlier. They - he and Dana – would have a child together. They had Emily, but this time he'd been present at the conception instead of the birth. It was real. They - he and Dana - were real. He played poker with real money instead of buttons, and he'd better not be bluffing. 

"I'm taking you home," he announced. "So you can rest. Let me find Byers and I'll borrow his buggy."

"I am not tired. I took the streetcar. I thought I would go on to the market. There is no need-"

"You're not taking the streetcar home. What if your skirt gets caught in a wheel or the horses bolt? What if there is a wreck? You're certainly not going to the market. Everyone pushing, jostling around..." He paused, thinking. "Would it be unreasonable if I carried you to the door?"

Her mouth twitched as she tried not to laugh at him. "Are you going to be like this for the next seven months?"

"Oh no. I am going to get much worse."

*~*~*~*

Unlike most wealthy families, Mulder didn't have a huge domestic staff, and the servants they had were trusted, discreet, and went home at night. Poppy ran the house with the assistance of a few maids, a cook, and a gardener. Emily had a nursemaid, but between Poppy, Dana, and Mulder, the woman seldom had much to do aside from laundering diapers. Mulder kept a groom and a few stable boys who served double-duty as house and errand boys, but not the legions of servants most households thought they required. Less people had meant less people to explain Melissa's behavior to, but also suited Mulder's reclusive personality. To him, it made the house seem intimate, as though a family lived there rather than a stage production.

"Bas bleu," Mulder teased Dana, who curled up in the library with her nose in some magazine. She glanced up. "Blue stocking," he translated. 

Dana looked down at her white silk stocking feet, her toes peeking out from under the blanket. She went back to reading. 

"A literary woman," he explained, and she "um-hummed" him. 

Emily seemed tired and fussy, so he sank into the upholstered leather chair beside Dana's, settled Emily against his chest, and propped his sock feet up to the fire. They usually went to his mother's house on Sunday, but it was raining and Emily had a cold. Dana didn’t show yet, nor had they announced her pregnancy, but ladies in the family way avoided being seen in public. Mulder needed time to relax. It had been an eventful week, to put it mildly.

Alone in the house, they had pancakes for breakfast and again for lunch. Mulder managed an old shirt and trousers, but Dana got no further than putting a dressing gown on over her underclothes. Propriety be damned; this level of sloth was so wonderful it was probably a sin.

"E-p-i-d-e-m-i-c," Dana spelled, her forehead wrinkling. 

"Epidemic," Mulder answered. "A plague. If many people are sick. Or, it might mean something widely popular the writer doesn't approve of. For example, we saw an epidemic of ugly little hats in Savannah."

She nodded, toying with her braid as she concentrated. Dana must have spoken English as a girl; her accent was noticeable, but it veiled her words rather than masked them. She hadn't been taught to read and write it, though. As a merchant's daughter, she'd probably completed sixth grade at a local school or with a tutor. Eighth grade, if her parents valued education for girls, and learned to read and write in Gaelic.

"Do you want me to read it to you?" he offered.

"No, I want to," she mumbled. He watched her lips move as she tried to sound out a word. "What is put-re-faction?"

"Spell it." 

She did. 

He answered, "Putrefaction. To decay. Rot. Maybe to pollute or spoil."

She nodded again. "And p-r-o-p-h-y-l-a-x-i-s?" 

"Prophylaxis," he pronounced slowly. "It means to prevent. A preventative, as in 'prophylactic.' It's an, um... For... What in the world are you reading?" Mulder leaned sideways, looking over her shoulder, relieved but puzzled. "Is that my Scientific American? The Treatment of Cholera? Why do you have it?" 

She clutched the journal as if she expected him to snatch it from her. "I want to read it. You said you had finished with it." 

"All right, Miss Difficult. I was expecting Godey's Lady's Journal, but read whatever you like. I'm wondering why you find cholera, of all things, so engrossing."

"It killed my sister."

Emily coughed and went back to sucking her thumb. Her eyelids grew lower with each blink. Mulder rubbed her back, watching Dana out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't know you had a sister."

She buried her nose in the journal again, as if she hadn't heard him. "She died," Dana responded. He continued to look at her questioningly. "Of cholera. I was seventeen; she was twenty."

"What was her name?"

"Melissa."

He exhaled, making a sound between an amused snort and a wistful sigh. "Melly?"

"Missy." 

He waited, but she didn't seem inclined to discuss it. Asking would be a waste of breath, so he left one hand on Emily's back and picked up his newspaper with the other.

"Dr. Waterston asked her to marry him," Dana added several minutes later, as though it was information she'd recalled.

He lowered the paper and turned his head toward her. "She died, so he asked you." 

"Yes."

"It must have seemed an excellent match to your parents. A newly-come Irish girl marrying a wealthy American doctor. They would have been delighted. They might have pushed their daughter, if she was hesitant. Polite society ostracizes immigrants, so how fortunate not one, but both of their pretty daughters would find a gentleman who wanted to marry for love. Once the marriage is done, there is no going back."

"You are a gentleman." 

"I am a freethinker, and my blue-blooded ancestors still scratch their heads and wonder where I came from. I print what I want, I marry whom I want, and I live with the consequences."

She stared straight ahead as she asked, "You wanted Sarah, but married Melissa. Did you feel cheated you did not get your first choice?"

"No," he answered. "No, I never felt Melissa was a substitute for her sister. Nor do I feel you're a substitute for Melly. I care for each of you, but in different ways."

"Oh," she said, finished discussing the topic. 

"It wouldn't have been different if he'd married your sister."

She shrugged and went back to reading.

"No, Dana, listen to me. It would not have been different. He would not have been different. Not with you, not with your sister, nor Dori, nor any other woman. If a man isn't content with himself, no woman can make him content, no matter how hard she tries. He'll keep searching for one who can and wondering why he cannot find her."

Emily yawned and surrendered to her nap, warm and heavy and safe against his chest. 

Dana continued to stare at her magazine. Her lips and eyes weren't moving, though; she didn’t read.

"Yes, men are men,” Mulder continued. “Our heads are easily turned, but not our hearts, and we know the difference. At least, most of us know the difference."

He couldn't tell if she even listened to his diatribe, or whether he soothed or upset her. He gave up and carried Emily to the nursery and put her down in her crib. One of her cheeks was red from pressing against his shirt. Mulder stroked it, watching her sleep.

"I care for you as well," Dana said from the doorway, startling him. Mulder hadn't heard her come up the stairs. "I am not good at saying it."

He left the nursery door open a few inches, and followed Dana down the hall to their bedroom. She slipped off her robe, draping it over the end of the bed, and crawled under the covers in her chemise and pantalets, giving him a nice view as she did. Split-crotch pantalets: a God-given boon to mankind.

"How is Harvey?" Mulder lay down beside her and put his hand on her flat abdomen.

"Fine. He liked the pancakes." She put her hand over his and looked thoughtful. "But he hates his nickname. He says his father is strange."

He snuggled against her, holding her close. "When did you realize you cared for me?"

She thought before she answered, "When you told me how Samuel loved splashing through mud puddles in the buggy. You said when he was six, he would watch for them and you would drive through them as fast as you could. It was a game, and after a while, you did it so much the horse-" 

"Porthos."

"Yes, Porthos would bolt through puddles whether you told him to or not. You said long after Samuel outgrew the game, Porthos still did it."

"He still does it, so I keep blinders on him. He's not a bright animal."

"The way you talked about Sam - how much you loved your son, how proud you were of your family. I wanted..." She stopped. "I wanted to take away your pain. I marveled at your strength. You had lost so much, and yet you still had faith. Hope. Love. I..." She looked self-conscious. 

"I thought the same thing about you," he confessed. "I remember telling you the story of Samuel and Porthos. The evening before Dori and Benjamin came. It was storming, and I kept hanging around the kitchen after dinner, bothering you and putting off going out in the rain."

"That night, I dreamt you were in my bedroom, watching me."

"What an odd dream," he commented. "What in the world would I have been doing in your bedroom?"

"Uh-mumm." She shrugged and laced her fingers through his, relaxing. 

He grinned, raising his head to whisper in her ear. "The old chemise you slept in? I know why you took it off to nurse the baby. You might as well have worn nothing. In the morning light, after you'd kicked off the covers, I could see right through it. It was pretty, earlier, though: billowing around as you opened the window during the storm."

She came alive again, rolling him on his back and straddling his hips. "You were watching me! You, sir, are wicked."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He laughed and grabbed her hands. In one easy motion, he flipped them so he was on top of her, still holding her wrists. "I think you like me being wicked."

He kissed her, covering her mouth hungrily with his. According to the marriage manuals, most couples had intercourse twelve times a year. He and Dana probably averaged twelve times a week, and between his trip to Andersonville, the miserable aftermath, and her news yesterday, there had been a long dry spell.

Mulder pushed himself up, remembering. "We can't do this. My God, Dana, why didn't you say something?"

She licked her swollen lips, looking confused. "What was I supposed to say?"

"The baby."

"She is asleep."

"No, the other baby. You're going to have a baby, Dana. That's- that's the purpose of this. You're my wife, not my mistress."

She raised her head, whispering so he felt her breath in his ear, "If you do not stop being foolish and come here this second, I am going to tie you to the headboard with a scarf, Mr. Mulder, strip you naked, and remind you I am also acquainted with wickedness."

"Uh, ba- I, uh... Duh," he responded. "Yes."

*~*~*~*

Sometimes, during a lazy weekend, Mulder thought he could stand life as a gentleman of leisure. But Monday morning came. He would wake before the rest of the city, wipe the sleep from his eyes, inhale the energy of a new workday, and the week would start anew, holding infinite potential.

As she bolted from their bed and ran, nude, for the basin in the corner of their bedroom, Dana didn't greet dawn with the same enthusiasm.

He'd been slipping on his clothes in the darkness, but stopped buttoning, lit the lamp, and watched her uncomfortably. 

"Can I get you anything?" he asked as the retching stopped momentarily. He poured a glass of tepid water from the pitcher on the dresser. "Here." 

She pushed her long hair back from her face and took the glass sheepishly, taking a sip.

"I was trying not to wake you," he said, rolling up his shirt sleeves. He wore his shirt from the previous day; he hadn't been downstairs to wash or shave, and it was so early Emily still slept. 

Dana nodded. She swallowed and seemed focused on not vomiting rather than speaking.

She took another few sips and, after a bit, made her way back to their bed. She stopped long enough to retrieve her nightgown from the floor, pull it over her head, and lay down carefully. 

"Would you like tea?" Mulder offered.

She nodded again.

"Ginger tea?" he asked.

An unhappy furrow appeared between her eyebrows.

"Chamomile," he amended. "With honey." He ran his fingertips across her forehead, smoothing out the furrow, and promised he'd be back in a few minutes.

After a weekend without seeing a soul besides Dana and Emily, it was jarring to find Poppy in the kitchen, lighting a fire in the stove. Sadie sat on the floor near the pantry, gnawing a slice of apple. Most days, Poppy had her daughter at work with her. Public speculation about the father ran wild, but Poppy had never said and Mulder hadn't asked.

"I didn't hear you come in," he said neutrally, buttoning his shirt closed. "You're early."

He'd seen her briefly when he driven Dana home from the newspaper Friday, but otherwise their last contact had been the day before, when Dana had ordered Poppy out of their bedroom.

"Dana wants tea and toast. Get it ready and I'll take it up to her," he said, cordial but cool.

Poppy nodded and got a teacup down from the cupboard before adding more wood to the stove. 

He stood beside the kitchen table, waiting.

"Do you want tea too, Fox? Or hot water to shave?" she asked, the picture of the solicitous housekeeper. "Or coffee?"

"Coffee, but I want to take Dana's tea to her, first." He inhaled. "Poppy-"

"I shouldn't have come in," she said quickly, apologetically. "To your bedroom. I'm sorry."

"No," he corrected her. "It was fine you came to check on me. Your mistake was not leaving when Dana told you to."

"I was worried. You were upset, Fox."

"You're right. I was. But it wasn't your business, and Dana told you."

Poppy stared at the floor. After running his house, caring for Sam - and, more often than not, for Melly - for a decade, he imagined she had difficulty conceiving any part of his life wasn't her business. He expected her to get angry, but instead she said softly, "All right."

"It will not happen again," he told her, his voice calm but firm. "I don't want to hear any more complaints about Dana, and I don't want you questioning anything she tells you to do. She's my wife."

"I know," Poppy said in the same submissive voice. 

He kept waiting for her to be cross and self-righteous. Her quick and uncharacteristic acquiescence was unsettling.

"I know she's your wife," she repeated. "I know you care for her."

Though the stove warmed the room, she shivered, staring at the teacup in her hand. 

"Poppy, this is important to me: you being kind to Dana. Not making things harder for her. Will you?"

"I will," she said softly. "Whatever you want, Fox."

He shifted his feet, uncomfortable but unsure why. Something was different about her - between them - but he couldn't put his finger on it. 

"It's settled?" he asked.

She nodded, looking down at the floor.

Above him, he heard a bedspring squeak and quick footsteps as Dana made for the basin again. The teakettle wasn't boiling and Poppy had forgotten to make toast. Mulder filled a pitcher with fresh, cold water and picked up a tin of soda crackers instead.

Sadie raised one sticky hand, wanting a cracker. Mulder stooped down. He opened the tin and broke a cracker in half, giving it to the pretty little girl. As Sadie took it, he watched her, thinking how much she resembled Samuel with her stick-straight black hair and dark brown eyes. 

"Does she need anything?" he asked.

Poppy looked at him uncertainly.

"Your daughter," he clarified. "Does she get enough to eat? Does she need a winter coat? Does she have a doctor if she's sick? Does she need anything?"

"No," Poppy answered softly. "She don't need nothing. I take good care of her."

"I'm sure you do." Sadie offered the damp cracker back to him, and he smiled. "She looks like my Sam."

"Yes."

He gave Sadie a quick pat and stood up. As he did, he noticed Poppy shiver again. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked embarrassed.

"I should get back to Dana," he said, and she nodded. "Get a shawl. You're cold."

She nodded again, and he turned and walked away.

*~*~*~*

By nature, Mulder was prone to rumination, but not introspection. If a topic - particularly a mystery - tweaked his interest, he would dwell on it so long he should file a claim, build a cabin, and pay taxes. He wasn't, however, inclined to long, soul-searching examinations of his heart. He tended to act first, think second, and lastly - if necessary - introspect.

Anyone else would have carefully weighed the consequences of marrying a woman he barely knew, considering she grieved, she brought nothing except herself and her illegitimate daughter to the marriage, and she would never be accepted by genteel society. But Mulder proposed. He liked Dana, she liked him, there was a child... Two lives in shambles and one ruined world. It was a self-arranged arranged marriage, and a pleasant one. Debating sentiment after the fact would be a polite, useless form of mental masturbation.

But Dana snuck up on a man, damn it. She stole in like a thief who gave instead of took, rearranging their little arrangement. 

He cared for Dana and, if pressed, would have answered affirmatively he loved her. Neither was a revelation. It wasn't a passionate, reckless, 'in-love' love, but a gentle fondness and devotion. It wasn't outlandish for a husband to love his pretty, attentive, pregnant wife. In fact, it was the polite thing to do.

The revelation, which arrived one unseasonably cool June evening while at his desk in the library, was he was happy with her.

Stunned, Mulder stopped writing and put down his pen. He was happy with her. Content. This was how it felt. He remembered, though it felt like trying on a suit he hadn't worn in fifteen years and being awed it still fit. He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and watched her, studying on it for a long time. 

"I'm happy you're my wife," he announced out of the blue, beginning in the middle of a conversation.

Dana had been steadying Emily as she toddled around the library. She picked her daughter up and settling her on her hip. "You said you would be." 

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I did. I didn't realize I'd be right, though." 

"You did not? You asked me to marry you when you did not think you would be happy? Did you feel so sorry for me?"

"Happiness is like the color red. There are different shades of it. Sometimes it's so vivid it's blinding, and other times, a pale, faded memory. I told you I thought I would be happy if you were my wife, and I am telling you I am. I am happy you are my wife. As opposed to you being someone else's wife. Or someone else being my wife."

Mulder closed his mouth, worrying the inside of his lower lip. He started conversations with Dana sounding so intelligent and ended them sounding like the village idiot. Somewhere in the universe, Cupid put his hands on his hips, sighed, and shook his head in frustration.

Mulder cleared his throat. "For pity's sake, put Emmy down. Carrying one child at a time is plenty."

A floorboard squeaked. Poppy and her two-year old daughter stood in the hallway, probably coming to tell Dana she was leaving for the day. 

Mulder stopped scolding Dana, who turned to see what he stared at. Poppy's expression indicated she'd been listening for some time and disliked what she'd heard.

"Well, I suppose our secret's out," Mulder commented, breaking the tense silence. "Poppy, I'd appreciate if you wouldn't tell-"

Poppy and her daughter were gone. All remaining was the echo of her quick footsteps to the back of the house. 

He got up from his desk and chased after her. He caught up in the kitchen, and stood in front of the kitchen door to block her path. "Poppy, what's wrong?"

She wiped her nose with her free hand and answered shakily, "Nothing is wrong."

"I know you heard us talking. Are you angry I didn't tell you about the baby? We haven't told anyone yet. Not even Mother." 

"I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean to listen. No, I'm not angry. Why would I be angry? She's your wife. Of course, she'll have children."

"Poppy, I thought we had an understanding."

"We do. Fox, please move. I want to go home."

"Tell me what's wrong," he insisted.

"Nothing's wrong. I'm tired. I want to go home."

Focusing on the floor, she jerked blindly at her apron strings. Once she was free of it, she flung her apron at the peg beside the door and grabbed her daughter's sweater, pushing the child's arms into it haphazardly.

"Will you let me go?"

"Of course. In fact, let me drive you. It's too cold and wet for you to walk or take the streetcar; you've been sick, and Sadie could catch a chill."

"The master of the house don't drive his housekeeper home," she said, buttoning Sadie's sweater randomly. "It's not proper. People would talk."

"You and Dana only let me think I'm the master of this house. Don't think I don't know. You're- Poppy, are you crying?" he asked in surprise. 

"No, I'm not crying." She stood up, facing him but still keeping her head down. "She's your wife. I know you care for her. I'm glad she makes you happy. I'm glad another baby makes you happy. I'm foolish. You know how foolish women are."

"Well, you can't be foolish. It makes my stomach hurt." Nothing made him as ill at ease as a woman in tears. "Don’t be angry with me for not telling you. I need you more than ever."

"You do?" she whispered, sniffing.

He shifted uncomfortably, moving away from her. 

"With another baby coming? Of course I do. Dana's not going to be able to go out. She'll need to rest, except, of course, she doesn't think she needs to rest. I've been wondering, if you could- In a few months, could you to stay at night so she won't get up with Emmy? Could you stay and help with the baby? Or would that interfere with, uh..." He nodded to Sadie, putting it as delicately as possible. 

"No, it won't interfere," she said softly. "I could stay."

"All- All right. If you won't let me drive you home, did you bring a coat?"

She shook her head no, turning to leave. Poppy was a proud woman. She likely disliked him seeing her cry even more than he disliked seeing her.

"Take mine." He pulled it off the hook and draped it around her shoulders. She was tall, so it wasn't a bad fit. "For tonight."

"Thank you." She picked up her daughter and left, closing the back door softly after her. He sank into a wooden chair beside the stove.

Jesus. Women.

"Did she name her daughter before or after Melissa died?" Dana asked from behind him.

"I don't know." He looked over his shoulder to see her standing at the edge of the kitchen, holding Emily and looking unhappy. "After, probably. Why?"

"Sadie is a nickname for Sarah." 

He shrugged. "She and Melly's sister Sarah were close. The four of us grew up together. It's a common name."

Dana blinked like he told a joke and she thought she had missed the punch line. "It was what you and Melissa planned to name your baby."

Another shrug.

"You are right, Mr. Mulder. You can be a little dense."

*~*~*~* 

Once in a while, right in the middle of an otherwise ordinary life, a man gets a fairy tale. It began with 'once upon a time there was a disillusioned knight, a new baby, and a fair, though un-biddable, princess,' and before Mulder knew it - or could avoid it - something extraordinary happened.

One year-olds weren't known for their patience. Ice cream was involved, raising the probability of a tantrum to a dangerous level. The birthday party needed a hostess. Mulder went upstairs in search of Dana and found her in the empty ballroom, checking her figure in the floor-length mirrors lining one wall. He leaned against the doorway, grinning like boy who'd gotten by with something rotten.

"Yes, it does show," he said softly. 

She turned sideways, examining the outline of her abdomen against the front of her dress. "Do you think people will notice?"

"I hope so."

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and ambled toward her.

"There's about a, uh, a dozen people downstairs - at our invitation - bearing gifts and chanting for cake and ice cream. It's a rough crowd, Dana: the Byers' family, Frohike, a basset hound, a senator's widow... They have dessert forks and they're getting restless. It could turn ugly."

She laughed quietly. Her hair glistened in a fusion of gold and crimson as she turned. She'd opened the heavy drapes, and the sun spilled in, illuminating long rectangles across the polished floor.

"I will take my chances."

"You're a brave woman." He stood in front of her, smiling. "I'm afraid to get between Melvin Frohike and chocolate cake. I came upstairs to get reinforcements. Possibly my gun. Can't be too careful around Frohike and cake."

"I thought you were fearless, Mr. Mulder," she teased.

"Spiders," he admitted sheepishly. "Also, I'm not fond of fire. Every hero has his tragic flaw. Achilles, Oedipus, Samson."

"You snore. Is that a tragic flaw?"

"If you're the one trying to sleep next to me." He chuckled. "Which I'm glad you are.” He looked around. “It's a shame to waste this room. I don't remember it ever being danced in. Do you waltz?"

She shook her head no, but offered her arms.

"As I step forward, you step back, one foot at a time, and put your feet together. Back, back, together. Back, back, together." He started slowly, and she copied his movements. "Good; again. Back, back, together. Go where I guide you." He turned her, moving them in a slow, graceful waltz around the empty ballroom. "Back, back, together. One, two, three; one, two, three. You're dancing. Watch us in the mirror. We look nice together."

The hem of her skirt whispered against the floor as they glided, the only noise besides their feet in the room. In the mirrors, a tall, dark-haired, sleepy-eyed man in black trousers, a white shirt, and a gray silk vest whirled in endless circles with a pretty, petite woman with auburn hair. 

"Your bodice is navy," he realized, watching the reflection. He looked down her. "Not black." 

Her full taffeta skirt was black, but the new bodice, made looser to fit during her pregnancy, wasn't. It was the first time he'd seen her wearing an entire not-black garment, except for underclothes, since the plantation. It had been more than a year since her father and brothers died, but less than a year since she'd found out about Waterston. Of course, Waterston had been dead for some time before Dana had known, so the math was sketchy.

"Who were you mourning?" he asked out of curiosity.

"Everything, I suppose."

He nodded. Sometimes it wasn't a single person, but a way of life that died.

"My father," she added, and he nodded again. 

And sometimes it was necessary to pin grief to a name so people would understand.

"I think you've waltzed before." She was too light on her feet to have no idea how to dance.

"Perhaps I have, but it is still nice to have you teach me."

"Harvey's okay? This isn't too fast?"

"She is fine."

He raised his eyebrows in false distress. "When did my 'he' become a she?"

"Upon discovering she was to be named Harvey."

He shifted his hand on her waist, running his thumb over swell evidencing the baby's presence. 

"I love you," he said, causing her to miss a step. "You don't have to answer, although I'd rather you didn't laugh. I wanted you to know."

She waited, probably for him to qualify. To say he loved her, but not like he’d loved Melly. He loved her, but he wasn't in love with her. Or to see if he'd spend the next week avoiding her and pretending he hadn't said it at all.

"If you were going to answer, though, Dana, this would be a good time," he said, feeling naked. "If I would ask you if you love me, what would your answer be? If I asked?"

"If you asked, I would say 'yes,'" she said softly.

"Good." He did an agreed-on-the-price-of-a-horse nod. "It makes things simpler."

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "We have guests. We should be downstairs. Everyone is waiting." 

"Let them wait," he responded, holding her close and gliding in slow, graceful arcs around the silent ballroom.

*~*~*~*

Of their guests, trust Melvin Frohike to notice, and comment, first. Frohike took one look at Dana as she came down the steps, leaned close to Mulder, and said, "Congratulations."

Mulder responded, "Thank you," not bothering to pretend he didn't understand. 

Dana took a seat beside Mulder's mother, and held Emily on her lap. The birthday girl, satiated by handfuls of cake and sticky ice cream, was soon sound asleep with smears of chocolate icing decorating her dress. 

Mulder leaned against a tree in the back yard and sipped iced tea. The ladies congregated in the shade, and Grace paced languidly, looking for crumbs. His stepfather, thank God, hadn't seen any political or financial gain in attending a one-year-old’s birthday party, and hadn't blessed them with his presence.

At the first opportunity, Frohike sought out Mulder and pursued his line of questioning. “How far?” 

Dana glanced across the yard at them curiously. Mulder smiled. Once she looked away, he answered quietly, “Five months." 

"Hoping for a boy or girl?"

Mulder tried to talk without moving his lips. “I believe those are the choices.”

"You want a boy,” Frohike said knowingly, and louder than Mulder preferred. The little man crossed his arms. “Any problems with the pregnancy?"

Mulder looked at him unhappily. "You are vulgar, but no.” He shook his head. “Not so far."

Frohike leaned close and raised his brows. "Any problems with the conception?" 

Mulder’s lips parted soundlessly. 

The old man gestured to his innocence. “I’m asking in the interest of science.”

Mulder chuckled nervously, told Frohike, “Go to Hell,” and moved away to sit on the grass in front of Dana’s and his mother’s bench. 

"There's my precious boy," his mother said, smiling kindly. "Fox, where on Earth has your father gotten to?"

Mulder answered easily. "He's in the house." 

His mother nodded and went back to watching the others and enjoying the pretty summer day. She remained as kind and elegant as ever, but she didn't seem to recall anything from the last two years. The doctor believed grief brought on a stroke, blocking out her recollection of Melissa and Bill Mulder's death. To her, Samuel was thirteen, and her husband and daughter-in-law were in the next room. 

Which, in a way, was a blessing. 

While Mulder’s mother knew she liked Dana, she had no idea who Dana was and chastised Mulder for appearing in public with a woman she assumed was his mistress. Emily - though his mother saw her at least once a week - she called “Samuel,” assuming any baby with her son had to be her grandson. If corrected, his mother became embarrassed and apologized, remembered a few minutes, but forgot again. 

Mulder had thought of having his mother live with him, but she was happy in her own home. She'd lived there for decades, and her servants, as loyal as family, tended her every need. Spender wanted little to do with her, aside from pilfering her late husband's last name and reputation. Rumor had it Spender's carnal interests didn’t incline to the fairer sex, and he'd lived in a hotel with his disreputable cronies for months, anyway. Teena Mulder, confused but still a lady, had tired of her brother-in-law and his greasy friends in her house and politely asked them to leave. Bill Mulder hadn't come home to make Spender leave, so she'd sent for her son, who'd relished throwing his uncle out.

Mulder threatened an annulment. Obviously his mother couldn't consent to the marriage if she believed Bill Mulder still alive. Spender had backed off to plot and lick his wounds.

Amid the birthday party, Mulder laid his head back on the wooden bench. He closed his eyes. The sun filtered through the leaves and warmed his face. A woman's cool fingertips touched his cheek: his mother's touch. He could have easily fallen asleep, but that would make him a poor host, even at so casual a get-together. Instead, he offered to take Emily inside and put her down.

"See where your father has gotten to," his mother requested. 

From across the yard, Frohike still watched them curiously. 

Dana handed Mulder the sleeping toddler. "I will," Mulder promised, yawned, and ambled into the house.

*~*~*~*

John Byers had never won a fist-fight in his life, but he was second to no man in manners. Moments earlier, he’d gone to fetch his carriage from the stable, preparing to collect Susanne and their girls. Mulder’s initial response to the rapping on the front door was to smirk and tell Emily, “Only Byers would knock before coming back in.”

Emily shifted her head, smeared chocolate on Mulder’s shoulder, and slept on. 

Before Mulder could reach the door, the polite rap became an urgent fist pounding on the hardwood. 

An AP reporter stood on the porch, chest heaving, a valise in his hand. He’d come directly from the train station, he said.

Mulder shifted the sleeping toddler to his other arm. Footsteps approached behind him; Frohike had followed Mulder inside, probably with more crude questions about Dana’s condition. In front of the house, Byers’ carriage rolled to a gentle stop. Mulder noticed Byers’ and Frohike’s presence, but as one noted a distant train or unremarkable cloud. There, but immaterial. 

He saw the reporter’s lips, beneath a swooping mustache, rapidly forming a single word again and again. “Samuel.”

The front door remained ajar. Mulder stepped onto the porch. The reporter jabbered out his tale at the speed of a telegraph operator, but Mulder needed one fact. “Is he alive?”

At the reporter’s “yes,” Mulder’s insides quaked. 

Because Mulder held his napping daughter, and his expectant wife was in the backyard – and he’d lost his taste for pointless heartbreak and self-flagellation - he pulled himself together to ask, “Are you certain?”

Frohike stood beside him like a birddog on point. The carriage creaked as Byers set the brake. 

"No, I'm not certain," the reporter hedged. "I haven’t seen Samuel in two years, and I couldn't get him to speak to me.”

"How did you know?" Mulder demanded.

"I was interviewing the miners about the cave in - for the article - and I heard a guitar. A guitar playing Bach in a coal camp. I followed my ears, and found a young man who could easily have been your son.”

The reporter continued speaking, but for Mulder, the world took on a dull hum. Frohike asked a question. The AP reporter answered. Mulder heard nonsensical male voices. 

Hands on his hips, Frohike said, “We should telegraph-”

“No.” Mulder cut him off. “I need to go. Here.” He thrust Emily at Frohike. "I need to go myself."

In the driveway, seeming a hundred yards away rather than five, Byers climbed down from the buggy and asked, "What's happening?" 

Mulder called to him, "Can you drive my mother home? Keep an eye on her and Dana for a week?"

"Of course.” Byers adjusted his hat. “Where are you going?"

"Pennsylvania." 

The toddler began to fuss. Frohike jiggled her nervously. 

Mulder whirled and strode into the house. The front door remained ajar. 

Behind him, he heard Frohike explain, "He thinks he's found Sam." 

"Oh God," Byers’s voice responded sadly. "Again?"

Emily fussed louder.

Mulder would ride to the station, catch the train to Pittsburgh, and ride north. He could be at the camp within hours. 

Frohike asked, "Wouldn't you go if it was your son?"

"Yes, I suppose I would," Byers responded. He sighed and said, hopefully to Emily, “Come here, little one.”

Mulder noticed a smeared chocolate handprint on his gray vest. He rubbed at the stain as he hurried up the stairs, but only smeared it. 

“Dana’s expecting,” Frohike added grimly, demonstrating how long newsmen could secrets.

In the same sad, resigned voice, Byers repeated, “Oh God.” 

*~*~*~*

In his haste, Mulder hadn't stopped to think up an excuse to tell Dana. He grabbed his pistol out of the nightstand and shoved a change of clothes into his old knapsack. He was saddling his horse as she appeared him in the stable.

"Please do not do this, Mr. Mulder," Dana said slowly.

"I'll be in Pennsylvania. On business." He tightened the girth so quickly the horse jumped. "John Byers will see to anything you need. I should be home in a week or so."

"Please do not lie and please do not do this. To yourself. Again."

He reached for reins. 

Dana stopped him by grabbing his sleeve. "It is not Samuel. Why would he not come home? If he is alive and well, why would he be in a coal mine in Pennsylvania? This reporter who thinks he saw your son- Have you seen men emerge from a mine? They are covered in coal dust. You cannot tell one from another. He saw a boy, but they are all boys because they do not live long enough to become men. Please stop and think."

"The reporter's known Samuel since Sam was six. If he thinks he saw him...” Mulder nodded with certainty. “It’s Sam. He's out there, Dana. He's alive."

Dana folded her arms. "Go tell your mother."

Mulder hesitated, caught off-guard.

"She is inside," Dana continued. "If you are sure it is Samuel, go inside and tell your mother you are bringing her grandson home. Tell Poppy you have found her Sam. She is upstairs with Sadie and Emily. Go tell her you have found the child she nursed and loved as her own. Tell Poppy he is alive and will be in her arms by the end of the week."

"I-I couldn't do that to them. What if I'm wrong?"

"But you will do it to yourself. Over and over and over again," she said angrily. "Listen to yourself. Even if you saw him alive in Atlanta, it has been two years without any word. Let him go and stop this before you make yourself crazy!"

"It wouldn't matter if it had been two or twenty years. He's still my son."

She put her hand on her abdomen. "And this is not?"

"I owe it to my family. I lost him. It's my job to find him."

"Emily and I are not your family?"

"Of course," he answered automatically. The world had resumed its dull hum. "I will be home soon. Take care of yourself."

"Mr. Mulder- Mulder, stop! Please. Please do not do this. You promised me! No more wild goose chases."

He put his boot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. "This time it's him."

"It is always him!" she yelled after him as he rode away.

*~*~*~*

End - Paracelsus VII

 

Begin: Paracelsus VIII

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa,

Both my pencils have been sharpened into a pile of wood shavings, so I borrowed one from the porter. The hour is late, and the car quiet, so he stayed to make polite conversation, asking if I was writing to my wife. To my surprise, I heard myself answering I was not, and I sent a telegram to my wife before I boarded the train.

I didn't notice the drift, but my boat has come to rest against a different shore. Of course, being Fox Mulder, I didn't realize until I'd collided with the dock.

In the locked, right-hand drawer of my desk in the library, underneath the ledger, the cashbox, and a sapphire necklace I'm keeping hidden until Dana's birthday, is an impressive collection of letters, all addressed to you. I am sure, once I reach DC, I will add this one to the stack. I have been married a year. I have Emily and another baby on the way. I care so much for Dana, yet I find myself writing to you. It does not seem reasonable but I seldom do things reasonably.

Mother said those words after I told her you and I were getting married. And the reason you and I were getting married, aside from my undying love. I was staring at the rug, too ashamed to look at her, and she patted my cheek, smiled sadly, and said, "You never love reasonably, do you, dear boy?"

No, I suppose I never do.

I know what Dana's thinking; I'm thinking the same thing. I do love her. And Emily. And Dana's mysterious stomach upset, which the doctor feels should be remedied by Christmas. I love who I am with Dana, and the man I see reflected in her eyes. I like that man. I have no intention of losing him.

I can't tell her what the future holds or, if I could relive the past, assure Dana I would make the same decisions. In fact, I could assure her I would not. It's the stumbling block of mortality: when a man looks to yesterday, it's unchangeable, and the future is an ethereal dream. We grasp at tomorrow and rewrite the past, but the moment we have is the one we hold in our hands. 

This moment, Melly, I have more than I ever dreamed.

I have our boy, and we are going home.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

As disasters went, this one wasn't particularly tragic. In early August, an underground fire caused the main shaft of the Davlon mine in Pennsylvania to cave in, trapping workers a thousand feet below the surface and cutting off their means of escape and source of air. Of the one hundred and eighty men and boys who'd descended the shaft, one hundred and ten had been crushed or suffocated.

Mining was dangerous work, and accidents a frequent occurrence. Nor was anyone surprised to find bodies of boys as young as eleven when no man below fourteen was supposedly allowed underground. The scandal about to hit the newspapers was the coal company's response to the accident: to leave the miners to die. For two days, despite thousands of volunteers, no effort was made to dig the workers out or to put out the fire. Rescue attempts probably would have been futile, given the depth of the mine and the extent of the cave in, but company considered its miners so dispensable it didn't even try. 

The story wouldn't hit the AP wires until tomorrow morning, which gave Mulder twelve hours before it ran on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Twelve hours before America sucked in a collective disapproving breath, and the company locked its gates against a storm of public outrage.

After a tense afternoon of waiting and arguing with the supervisors, trying to convince them he wasn't an agitator or a reporter, he'd greased enough palms and gotten an unenthusiastic go ahead. The supervisor appraised Mulder's silk vest, the gold chain on his pocket watch, his polished boots and fine horse, and asked in disbelief, "You got a boy here, Mister?" 

"I think so. I want to check. I won't cause any trouble."

"We'll be sure," the supervisor responded, and assigned two burly men to escort him. The men had orders not to let Mulder out of their sight.

The camp reminded Mulder Hell after the fire had burned out. It was still Hell; it had cooled and gathered a layer of grime. Although he hadn't touched anything, Mulder seemed to attract coal dust out of the air. It coated his skin and crept beneath his fingernails. It got in his mouth and in his throat and clogged the corners of his eyes. It mixed with sweat and collected in the creases of his wrists and the insides of his elbows.

Lean, wary faces watched him and his escorts as they rode past, the whites of their eyes a stark contrast to their dirty skin. Mulder had lived in Army camps, which stank to high Heaven, and seen the south after the war, but this was worse. The atmosphere was permeated with unwashed bodies and waste and long-term poverty. Empty bellies and paper-thin dresses and children who'd never worn shoes or seen a book. The laundry hung to dry between the dilapidated company houses wasn't white, but dingy gray. The aroma of salt-pork, flour, and boiled potatoes hung in the air, although Mulder couldn't imagine eating anything cooked in this place. He couldn't imagine doing anything in this place except getting out and getting someplace, anyplace else.

He dismounted, leaving Aramis, and walked along the benches of children picking through the coal as it came down the chute, pulling out the chunks of slate and rock. He'd been told Sam, if he worked in the camp and wasn't in the bunkhouses, was probably in the mines, but they also wouldn't let Mulder in the mines to check.

"I'm looking for a boy named 'Sam,'" Mulder raised his voice to be heard. "Samuel. He can play guitar. He plays well. He can draw. And read and write. Tall, black hair, dark eyes. He might be called another name. Does anyone know him?"

The children kept their heads down and eyes focused on their work. Mulder heard the scrape of knuckles against rock, a few coughs, and nothing else.

"Anybody seen the boy? He work at this chute?" one of his escorts asked tersely, and four-dozen frightened heads automatically shook "no."

"Thank you," Mulder said awkwardly, though no one seemed to listen.

A bell tolled, resonating through the camp and echoing off the hills. The sorting paused. The children looked at each other from underneath their lashes but continued working.

"What does the bell mean?" Mulder asked, and no one answered. "What does it mean?" he repeated sharply.

"Cave in," a little voice said, its owner bent over the chute. His fingers methodically sifted through the chunks of rock. "Maybe a fire. Bell means somebody's dead." 

"Isn't anyone going to do something?" Mulder asked through his teeth. 

His pulse beat a dozen times inside his ears before one of his escorts said casually, "Day shift's over. We can go to up to the mine and see if your boy's comin' out."

Mulder wanted to threaten, “What do you mean if he's coming out? He's either coming out or I'm grabbing a pickaxe and going in,” but he didn't. He chewed his lip nervously and followed the others to the opening of the main shaft, leading his horse after him. 

The crowd began assembling as soon as the bell tolled - hollow-eyed women with small children streamed out of the camp and made their way to the mine. They gathered at the base of the slope and waited. One woman had her sleeves rolled up, and her forearms remained wet from dishes or laundry. Another held a baby Emily's age on her hip and, with her free hand, clutched a spatula; in one of the coal company shacks, her husband's dinner probably burned. They waited to see which of the miners would walk out and which would be carried. Ten could be dead, or twenty, or all.

Mulder yearned to shout, “My God, how can you live like this? How can you stand there?” but he didn't. He bit his lip harder and watched as the first boys - the ones in charge of opening and closing the mine doors and driving the mule-drawn coal cars - emerged.

After them, teenagers and young adults trudged out, moving like old men. Their backs were bowed from stooping in the low tunnels, and many wore trousers wet to the knee from standing in water. He felt the ache in their joints as they moved, each step an effort. Every inch of their exposed skin was black with dust, and their clothes were dim reflections of their original colors. Mulder had no idea how the women waiting could tell them apart, but they could. He watched as family after family reunited, relaxed, and walked home for the night.

Men carried out a stretcher bearing a mangled body, its upper torso crushed by falling slate. The corpse wasn't Sam, but a tense moment passed while Mulder convinced himself it wasn't. No one reacted; the body didn't seem to belong to any of the women. He was no one's son or brother or young husband. One of the mine bosses pulled the sheet over the expressionless face, and the stretcher moved on.

"Company'll take care of him," someone murmured.

A fresh group of men and boys assembled for the night shift, waiting to descend into the shaft, as the last of the day shift straggled out. The mine doors stood open, and the cool, dank air wafted up. A series of lanterns lit the first few yards, and Mulder saw the rough walls, the timber support beams along the sides, and the steel tracks for the coal cars along the bottom. The shaft descended, darkened, and there was nothing. Mulder squinted and stepped forward as though he could see into the black depths.

"Sorry, Mister," one of his escorts said blandly. The man turned to leave, but Mulder didn't move. Not yet. After so much, he wouldn’t walk away.

"Mister, we said you could look, and you looked. If he's not going in and he didn't come out, and he ain't in camp, he ain't here. We don't got no secret place we hide folks."

Mulder ignored them. His escorts looked at each other as if trying to decide if it was worth the effort to drag him away. They must have decided it wasn't, because they leaned against a pile of railroad ties and resigned themselves.

For ten minutes, no one emerged. 

A man stepped out, pulled off his battered helmet, and announced, "Dog's alive; candle's burning."

The crowd of men surged forward, carrying their picks and shovels with them. Odds were, of the two hundred men beginning the night shift, one wouldn't be alive the next morning.

"They send a dog and candle down. If the dog comes back and the candle's still burnin', there's good air to breathe," a woman waiting beside Mulder explained quietly. She squeezed a man's hand and released it as the man followed the crowd into the mine. He whistled and secured his helmet as he walked. 

"Are there any men from the last shift in there?" 

She nodded tensely. 

"Live men or more bodies?"

"They bring out the bodies, if they can find them." The thin fabric of her bonnet flapped against her cheek in the breeze. The others had gone, either into the shaft or back to the camp, but she, Mulder, and his bored escorts remained. She crossed her skinny arms, waiting, her hawk-like eyes focused on the entrance to the mine.

The change was miniscule. She exhaled, closed her eyes briefly, and seemed to say a silent prayer of thanks. "That's my boy," she said, lifting her chin toward the top of the hill. "The other yours?"

Mulder looked up. Two teenagers came out of the mine. They stretched tiredly and took their time. One grinned and loped coltishly down the slope to his mother.

"Slowpoke! Scare me half to death, why don't you?" the woman fussed at her son. She smacked him on the back of the head and backside, scolding him as they walked away.

The other boy stopped. He stared at Mulder and let go of a rope fashioned into a makeshift lead around a dog's neck. He took off his helmet, revealing a clean expanse of skin between his eyebrows and hairline, and swung his pickaxe down from his shoulder. The axe thudded dully against the ground. The rest of the boy’s face was powdered black with coal dust, but the eyes hadn't changed. Melly's eyes. The high cheekbones, the full lips, and the gentle brown eyes were exactly the same.

"Yes," Mulder mumbled to no one. He felt electricity shooting down his spine. His voice sounded odd, as though he spoke from far away. "That's my boy."

*~*~*~*

Mulder wasn't certain what to say or do, and so he said and did too much. He lost a sweet, trusting, chatterbox of a boy and found silent, vigilant young man. He didn’t know what to do with Sam except not let him out of his sight again.

Mulder said, "I knew it was you," as the waiter laid out dinner on the table in their hotel room. Samuel was skittish of the noise and chaos of the restaurant downstairs. "They said you owed the company store five dollars, all for licorice. How do you eat five dollars’ worth of licorice, Sammy? Was it a dare?"

From the bathtub in the corner, Samuel stared at his father numbly. His handsome face was more angular, watchful, without its boyish roundness and innocence. His eyes looked as though they'd witnessed a thousand years of pain. After a few seconds, without answering, Sam took a breath and sunk below the surface of the water, letting his black hair swirl around his head, and not answering.

Mulder sighed uncomfortably, nodded to himself, and closed his mouth.

After the waiter left, Mulder put Sam's battered guitar aside and poured hot water into the basin. He stripped off his vest, shirt, and cotton undershirt to wash, scrubbing off the nervous sweat and coal dust. Getting clean would probably take more soap and water than the hotel had, but he made a start.

He paused, braced his hands, and stared into the mirror over the washbasin. It was real. He found Sam. The certainty of it settled over him like evening dew, making him shiver.

Water splashed. "What happened to your back?" Sam's voice asked, arriving at a total of thirteen words he'd said since he obediently followed his father out of the camp hours earlier.

Mulder twisted, trying to see. On his left shoulder blade were three parallel, half-healed scratches. Dana needed to trim her fingernails.

"Probably a tree branch. Sam... Samuel, we need to talk about a few things."

He turned. Sam’s eyes focused on the scar crossing Mulder’s chest like a sash. Sam had never seen the extent of it, nor had Melly; Poppy or the doctor tended the wound, and the night Melissa invited him to bed, Mulder left his undershirt on.

"It's okay, Sammy. It's just a scar."

His son didn't seem convinced. Samuel sank down in the water again, submerging everything but his nose and eyes.

The manager had sent up a change of clothes, and Sam put them on after his bath. Once he and Mulder were clean, combed, and dressed, they sat at the table and appraised the feast the restaurant sent up. Sam dropped the linen napkin on his lap, picked up his fork, and went to work.

Watching him, now clean and clothed like a gentleman’s son, eat, Mulder felt a small measure of the tension inside his body release.

"Do you know Grandfather died?" Mulder said slowly, as though hearing it slowly made it any easier.

Sam nodded but focused on his lamb chop. The obituary had been in the papers, as had much speculation as to who the Massachusetts Legislature would appoint to fill the Senator's seat for the next term. Anyone but Spender, if Mulder had his way.

"Grandmother's having difficulty understanding all that's happened. She's fine but... Confused."

Sam nodded again. His knife scraped the plate.

"Poppy's fine. Her baby, Sadie, is two years old. I'll send a telegram in the morning and let everyone know we're coming home. Even Grace is still there. Your room's exactly the same."

Again, Mulder got no response except a nod. A polite, silent nod, as though speaking aloud frightened Samuel. As they ate, Sam's silver knife clinked against his china plate. So did Mulder's wedding ring against the stem of his crystal goblet.

"Why didn't you come home, Sam?" he asked.

His son looked up. He tried several times before he said, "I did. The train stopped in DC," he answered uncertainly. "I didn't get off. I'm sorry, sir."

"I was so worried about you. I didn't know where you were. If you were dead or alive. Why didn't you write? Why didn't you..." Mulder swallowed even though his mouth was empty.

Sam's face twitched. He glanced around the room, looking lost.

"Don't worry about it, son. Eat," Mulder ordered gently. "You can get some rest. We both can. It's a long trip home." 

*~*~*~* 

Outside the train, the miles slid past, Pennsylvania falling away to the Allegheny Mountains. Inside, time slowed to a crawl. The huge steel mills and factories became sleepy little towns nestled among the hills, safe from the rest of the world.

Sam dozed, but startled awake each time train lurched or made a loud noise. Mulder opened the little window, letting some air in while his son slept fitfully on one of the two upholstered benches in their first class nook.

"You lost a few ancestors here," he told Sam, who woke again as the train eased out of the Cumberland, Maryland station. "During the French and Indian War."

Sam ran his fingers through his black hair, pushing it back from his face. He asked sleepily, "On which side?" 

"Both. One French on my side; one Indian on your mother's." His son looked uninterested in his genealogy, so Mulder offered, "Do you want a drink of water?"

"No."

"I have some paper. Do you want to draw?"

Sam took it. The boy got as far as sharpening a pencil with his pocketknife before he put it down and shook his head. "It's so loud. It’s too loud. I can't think."

"It's all right. We'll be home soon," Mulder assured him. "A few more hours and we'll be home. Home will be quiet."

He’d sent Dana a telegram requesting no parties, no fanfare. Quiet.

His son turned his head toward the window. He let his hand rest on the sill so the wind caressed it. "I forget home is real. Everything feels different. I feel different." Sam seemed to study the sun dancing shyly behind the tree leaves. "I feel wrong." 

Mulder lay down his pencil and put his fist to his mouth as if waiting for a cough. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the change in his son frightened him. From the time Sam learned to walk, he had been a happy child. Talented. Gentle. Kindhearted. Sam had a wall around him now, and Mulder knew what it took to build walls so high.

"You aren't wrong. You're still my Sammy. You need time. Rest. A few square meals. And you needed out of that hellhole." 

"I liked mining," Sam said in the same distance voice, as if Mulder wasn't even present. "It's quiet. Dark. No one bothers you. You can hear the men working, but they're far away. Everything feels far away."

"You're not a miner." 

"I'm not a soldier," Sam responded flatly.

Mulder opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.

Sam licked his lips and caught the top one between his teeth. "I got angry at them for dying. The rebel soldiers. No matter how many I shot, they kept coming. There were so many of them. They knew I'd shoot, but they kept coming. And dying. Hundreds of them. They didn't even try to get out of the way. I didn’t want to kill them, and I hated them for being so stupid."

"Every man feels that, Sammy. It's part of war."

"I should have died, too. You should have died," his son informed him. Mulder shivered again. The Army doctor in Tennessee had told him, as had their own doctor in DC, but Mulder didn't know Sam overheard.

"Were you wounded, Sam? Did you get hurt?"

Sam's head shook no.

"You think should be dead? Did you take your pickax and walk down into the bowels of Hell every shift, waiting, until one day, Death thinks to come back for you?"

His son looked at him briefly, vacantly, and went back to staring out the window as the miles rolled past.

"Sammy, I need to tell you something. You've been away a long time and- Your mother-" He'd spent hours trying to think of a way to approach the subject and waiting for an opportunity, but there didn't seem to be a gentle segue. "I'm married, Sam. I've remarried. Her name is Dana."

Mulder wasn't sure what reaction to expect, but he got none. He wondered if Sam had heard him. Samuel sat directly across from Mulder; obviously, Sam had.

"Her name is Dana," Mulder repeated. "She's Irish. I met her near Savannah. She's, she's nice. Headstrong, but nice. She's not at all like your mother, but I think you'll like her. I like her."

"Do you love her?"

"I... I care for her. We have a... There's a little girl named Emily. And..." Mulder changed his mind. Enough news for the time being.

"You and your wife have a daughter?" 

"She's-" Mulder stopped. "She's learning to walk."

"I'm glad."

"Are you?"

"I don't know," the boy answered tiredly. "I don't know what I am. I’m sorry, sir."

Samuel pulled the shade down over the window, blocking out the orange and violet sunset. He watched the decorative tassels sway back and forth as the train rocked forward. 

*~*~*~*

Dana brought Mulder a cup of tea, tucked her dressing gown around her, and sat beside him in the hallway outside Samuel's bedroom. It didn't matter the crisis, Dana had a tea for it. Mulder took a sip. Her husband bringing home his long lost and much-traumatized son to his new wife and family: peppermint tea. It must soothe heartaches as well as stomachaches.

"I would ask if you plan to sit and watch him all night, but you are halfway there," Dana whispered. She slipped her hand into his, interlacing their fingers. Her palm felt warm from the teacup, and she smelled of sun-dried cotton, the nursery, expensive soap, and clean hair. 

Mulder responded by maneuvering so he leaned back against the wall. She sat between his legs, and his hands covered hers on her abdomen. He should tell her to get up from the cold floor and go to bed, but he didn't. It was nice to have his arms around her. Like Sarah, Dana stabilized him, giving him a sandbar to stand on in the ocean - a place to rest and momentarily stop treading water.

"He's real, Dana," Mulder repeated wondrously for what had to be the thousandth time. "I keep expecting to wake up and have his bed be empty again, but he's real."

Their words were barely breath with sounds attached. Samuel slept on, still in the suit he'd worn on the train and, for the moment, lost in the heavy, velvet oblivion dreams. He lay sprawled across the quilt, his jet-black hair falling across his face and his soft, pink lips parted as he dreamt. A candle flickered on the night stand, and Grace lay at the foot of the bed, daring anyone to come near his boy.

"He is beautiful. Like a painting or a statue."

"Don't let him hear you say it. He dislikes being called pretty."

"But he is," she insisted. "Even seeing the photographs, I did not realize..." She looked back at Mulder's angular face, and through the open doorway at Samuel. "He-"

"He looks more like Melissa," Mulder answered. "He's a good boy, Dana. I know he seems cool, but he's not. He's been through so much."

Their train was delayed outside DC, so they hadn't arrived home until eleven. Dana waited up, but Poppy was gone and Emily asleep. Grace had met his boy at the front door with a full-body wag, baying excitedly. Sam greeted Dana politely and wandered through the house with Grace at his heels for a while, as if silently noting the changes. Samuel declined tea, struck a few chords on the piano, looked around, told them goodnight, and went to his bedroom. Judging from the light beneath his door, Sam hadn't gone to sleep for another three hours.

"Would he tell you how he got to the mines?" Dana asked Mulder softly, as they continued to watch Samuel sleep.

"He said it was the train's last stop,” Mulder answered. “End of the  
line. As far away as he could get, I guess." He paused and leaned his head back against the cool wall. "In the camp, I don't think he wanted to come home with me. He’s polite and he humored me, like he used to play baseball because I wanted to. I know he blames me, and he should. I was the one who fell asleep. Melissa should never have been having another baby in the first place, but- I kept looking for him when the truth was he didn't want to come home. He wasn't lost; he didn't want to be found."

"Did he say that?"

"No, of course not."

"Maybe he did want to come home, but he needed someone to help him find the way. War is bad enough for a man, but for a boy, after losing his mother and sister... Perhaps he could not. You could not. You were right; there are ghosts here, Mr. Mulder. There are restless spirits haunting you still. Perhaps your son could not face them alone, either."

"I didn't go home because I was looking for him."

"You spent several months looking for him in my barn."

He smirked uncomfortably, but it was true. War was horrible beyond comprehension, especially for young men who marched off expecting glory. Every soldier came home changed, hardened, and a few never came home at all because they were so changed they couldn't face their old lives. For some, the end of the war was like A.D.; they dated their lives from that point forward and forgot everything from before - including their homes and families.

"I did not mean-" she began apologetically.

"I know what you meant, Dana, and you did not intend to be impertinent. I was thinking about it."

She inhaled, shifting her hand against her belly.

"What's the matter?"

"The baby is moving."

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No, nothing is wrong. He is moving. He had been for days. Can you feel him?"

She leaned back. Mulder put his palm where she indicated, tilting his head and concentrating. "What does it feel like?"

"Like a butterfly flapping its wings. A little flutter."

He pushed her dressing gown aside, repositioned his hand against her nightgown, and pressed again, trying to detect any motion. "No, I don't think I can. I'm not... No, I don't think so. But you can?"

"Yes, I can feel him." 

Mulder leaned back, leaving his hand where it was - on a new beginning.

"He's real too. I haven't forgotten," he said quietly, slowly. "I won't, Dana. I love you. And Emily, and this baby. I thought about what you said: how I never would've married you if I thought Sam was still alive. I've been thinking about it quite a bit."

"What have you decided?"

He kissed her earlobe and dragged his lips across the soft, warm skin of her neck. "It's late, and I've missed you, and sometimes I think too much."

*~*~*~*

Mulder’s parents were openly affectionate, both toward their son and with each other. Not vulgar, but unusually demonstrative. Bill Mulder loved his wife, and he hadn't been embarrassed about showing it. They would hold hands and even kiss in public, which raised eyebrows. In private, Mulder found his mother sitting on his father's lap or with her hand on his thigh.

In retrospect, Mulder marveled he was an only child.

From them, Mulder learned love encompassed more than the two extremes society deemed acceptable: chivalrous, untouchable adoration or flat-on-her-back, close-your-eyes-and-think-of-England intercourse. He learned it didn't make him less of a man to be gentle or more of a man to be cruel. Saying he'd been a bad lover to Melissa was putting a sundial in the shade and blaming it for not telling time. 

From Dana, he learned a new world of things. Mulder winced if he thought back to their first weeks of marriage. He had never imagined women could be willing, active participants, or he could be playful, and lovemaking wasn't serious business. He could be silly or sweet or naughty, whispering and sometimes doing things to Dana making him blush at breakfast. He could give in to the rougher, animal side of his nature. As could Dana: a toe-curling experience leaving a grin on his face hours afterward. 

None of that was deviant. God didn't seem to mind. Men minded. Dana's priest probably minded, and the good reverend at Christ Church would have, but Mulder had never seen fit to mention it.

A man of many talents, Mulder managed to kiss his wife and untie her nightgown even as he nudged their bedroom door closed with his foot. "I missed you," he told her huskily. He gathered up her nightgown, pulled it over her head, and threw it to the floor. His boots went flying, landing across the bedroom with two dull clops. His vest, shirt, and trousers followed.

He picked her up with her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, and carried her to the bed. Dana’s little belly pressed against him, and he wasn't sure it was acceptable to find it erotic instead of repulsive or embarrassing. The idea she carried their child - and he'd caused that - was primitively, instinctively arousing. Mulder wanted to kill something ferocious and bring it to her as a bloody trophy. He wanted to pound his chest and piss in the corners to mark his territory. If not for the terrifying, life-threatening prospect of Dana having to give birth, he'd want to make her pregnant again as soon as possible.

That might be deviant. 

Setting her on the mattress, he pulled his mouth breathlessly from hers to ask, "I won't hurt the baby?"

"Nil, ta me go brea," she answered impatiently. Her eyes were dilated with arousal, and she probably didn’t realize she hadn’t spoken English. 

"Of course you're fine," he murmured sarcastically, caressing her breasts. "How would I say 'I love you'?"

He raised her nipple to his mouth. Her breathing quickened and her skin flushed and felt hot under his fingertips. "Ta gra agam duit," she whispered hoarsely.

"Tah grah ugum ditch," he echoed. He moved forward so she fell back across the blankets, her legs apart. "I like hearing you say it better."

She reached to fold the covers down, and he stopped her. "Do you think you need more covering than a man, love?"

"Nil, mo rún," she answered. Dana put her arms around his neck again and pulled him close. 

"Moron?" 

"Mo rún - my lover," she whispered to him.

*~*~*~*

Mulder wasn't awake, but he wasn't asleep either. He lingered in the comfortable state of being skin-to-skin with another human being in the cool darkness before dawn and having no need to open his eyes or move.

Mulder put his hand on Dana's stomach, trying to feel any movement. She yawned and shifted closer to him, mumbling something as she slept.

"Father," Samuel's voice said hesitantly.

Mulder opened his eyes and rolled over quickly. Sam stood in the bedroom doorway. Mulder hadn't heard footsteps or the door open, so Sam could have been there for some time. 

"Sammy." Mulder reached back and yanked the sheet to cover Dana. With no one else in the house at night except Emily, he’d never thought to lock the bedroom door. Or be quiet as they made love. Sam, though, accustomed to finding his mother in the bed and his father on the sofa, must have nothing of walking in. "What's wrong?"

"I came to see if you were awake."

"Yes. Yes, I'm awake. Are you all right?" Mulder pushed up on his elbow. He combed his fingers through his tousled hair, trying to look presentable.

Sam nodded. "I'm fine. I was awake. I had a dream. No one else is up." 

"I'll get up. Go start a fire in the kitchen stove and we'll have coffee. I can make biscuits - or something akin to them."

Samuel nodded again but didn't move. 

"Sam, I don't have clothes on,” Mulder admitted. “I can't get up until you leave."

"Oh," his son responded calmly. Samuel turned away, quietly closing the door after him. Within a few seconds, Mulder heard footsteps descend the stairs and the cast iron door on the kitchen stove squeak open. 

"Do you want me to fix breakfast?" Dana asked, not as fast asleep as she'd been pretending. 

"No, he wants me."

She sat up, watching Mulder dress. "I could-" 

"No, he wants me. Give us some time." He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and smiled encouragingly. Dana moved to kiss his lips, but Mulder pulled back before she could, and buttoned his shirt as he left. 

*~*~*~*

Instead of eating it, Sam dismantled his biscuit. He pulled it apart morsel by morsel and dropped the pieces to Grace.

"I don't know how to get them not to burn on the bottom. There must be trick to it," Mulder decided as he peeled the black part off of his. "Maybe-"

"I'm sorry I interrupted you," Sam said. "With your wife. I wasn't thinking."

"You didn't interrupt. We were sleeping."

"I don't think she likes me."

Mulder raised his eyebrows. "Of course, Dana likes you. She was staying out of the way last night, letting you get settled in. She doesn't want to intrude. Why do you think she didn't like you?"

"She didn't talk to me."

"Sammy, you didn't talk to her." 

"Oh," the boy mumbled and went back to dissecting his burnt biscuit.

Mulder stirred his coffee, though the cup contained nothing except coffee. He tapped his spoon on the rim of his cup, and Sam jumped. "Sorry," Mulder said, and set his spoon aside.

Several minutes later, Sam said, "You shaved your beard, Father." 

"You started growing one," Mulder teased. He reached to stroke hint of a mustache, but Sam pulled back warily. 

Mulder lowered his hand. 

"I shaved it after, uh, after the funeral,” Mulder said, sitting back. “Once I returned to my post. I started out looking like Lincoln but realized you were right - I looked more like a grizzly bear - so I shaved it off. It was gone by the time I saw you in Atlanta. I did see you in Atlanta, didn't I?"

Sam nodded, but answered, "All of it."

"Yes, it all went." Most men wore, if not full beards, at least sideburns, goatees, or mustaches. Few were clean-shaven. For years, Mulder vacillated between sideburns and a closely trimmed goatee. "I've started to grow it back a few times, but it bothers Dana's skin."

"She's expecting, isn't she?" 

"Yes, she is. I didn't think you'd notice, so I was waiting to tell you. Would you rather have a little brother or sister for Christmas?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Mulder knew it hadn't been the right thing to say. Damn it, nothing seemed the right thing to say. He wanted to grab his son and hold him close, to make all the nightmare monsters under the bed go away. He wanted to lecture how much he'd loved Melissa and how Dana wasn't a replacement or a betrayal. He wanted to shake Sam and shout, "I'm your father, and I love you, goddamn it!" but he didn't.

"You fixed my bedroom window," Sam said, as if the conversation naturally moved to the topic. "The broken pane."

"I think Dana had someone fix it after I telegraphed we were coming home. John Byers, probably. I was saving it for you. You and that baseball... I told you if you broke another one, you were fixing it."

"It was five years ago."

"I meant it."

For the first time, Sam grinned hesitantly. He gave the rest of his biscuit to Grace and reached for another. He didn't eat them, but he seemed to enjoy crumbling them.

From the nursery upstairs, a high-pitched voice announced she was awake and wanted her "Dah-dah-dah-dah." Each syllable got louder and more insistent.

"It's five o'clock. You can set your watch by her," Mulder told Samuel. He got up from the kitchen table. "It's Emily. Would you like to meet her?"

The floorboards above them squeaked as Dana got up, but Mulder looked up and said loudly, "I'll get her." The footsteps shuffled back to bed.

Sam kept his distance as Mulder lit the lamp in the nursery, and got ready for a diaper change. Emily watched from the crib, standing and clutching the iron bars like a prisoner desperate for release.

"Dah-dah-dah, upuh."

"I'm hurrying, Miss Impatience. You are your mother’s daughter. All right; come here," Mulder said as he lifted her up.

Sam wandered closer, and watched as a dry diaper replaced a wet one. "Doesn't her nurse take care of her? Or Poppy?"

"They do, but Poppy doesn't come until six. She'll start spending the night soon, though. Dana needs to rest. I can do it. We get a dry diaper, a drink of water, eat some crackers, sometimes we even take a bath, don't we, Emmy?" he said melodically. Mulder lifted the toddler high in the air and kissed her belly before settling her against his chest.

Emily sucked her thumb, eyeing Sam warily. 

"She doesn't look like I imagined," Samuel said.

"She looks more like Dana," Mulder answered.

Sam glanced around the dim nursery and the back at Emily. "How old would she be?" he asked. "Mother's baby? Sarah. If..."

"She'd be two, Sammy," he said quietly. "The same age as Poppy’s baby. She'd be walking, talking.” 

Sam leaned against the crib. He traced one cast-iron railing with his finger. The oil lamps flickered warm yellow light, keeping the darkness at bay. On the street outside the house, wooden cart wheels rolled slowly across the cobblestones as the sleeping city began to awaken.

"Dahdah?" Emily asked.

"What, sweetheart?"

Emily kept hold of a fistful of Mulder's shirt, but reached out for Sam with one damp hand.

"She wants you, Sam. Do you want to hold her?" He amended, "You don't have to."

To his surprise, Sam nodded and held out his arms.

"She sometimes doesn't like strangers. She's, uh, you need to... Be careful to- Sammy- Yes. Good." 

There was a rocking chair near the window. Sam sat down with Emily on his lap and his back to the door. Mulder hovered, thinking this a two-second whim, but minutes passed, silent except for the rocker creaking against the floorboards and Sam murmuring to her. Occasionally, Emily answered in her secret language: an entire universe condensed into ten or so of the most important single-syllable words.

Grace made a protective lap around the room and settled beside the rocking chair. He kept one floppy ear directed at the door. Grace opened his eyes and checked on Mulder. The dog exhaled a rumbling breath from deep in his chest, and closed his eyes again.

Sam pointed out the window to a lantern bobbing on the sidewalk below, telling Emily it was the night watchman making his last round. The watchman’s shift started at dusk when he lit the gas streetlamps and ended at sunrise as he extinguished them. Fascinated, Emily reached out, seeming to think she could catch the light and hold it in her hand like a firefly.

Mulder leaned against the edge of the crib until he saw Dana coming to check on them.

"Is everything all right?" she whispered as Mulder joined her in the dark hall. She wrapped her robe tightly around her and smoothed her hair back. "Where is Emily? I thought you were getting her. Where is Samuel? Is he all right?"

Mulder tipped his head toward the rocking chair slowly swaying beside the dark window. 

"What are they doing?" 

"They're talking, I think."

"Talking?"

"Talking." Mulder put his arms around her shoulders, rocking her back and forth to get her to relax. She covered his hands with hers and stood in front of him as they watched Sam with Emily. "Everything's going to be fine," he told her, feeling the first glimmer of certainty it would. "He's going to be fine. He needs time. And we're fine. We're going to be fine. How do you say that?"

"Ta muid go maith," she supplied, and leaned her head back against his shoulder. 

"We are fine?"

"More like 'we are well,' I think. It is similar to the way you say you are not good, you are less bad. Ta mui go maith."

"Tah-mwidj go mah," he repeated after her.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus VIII

Begin: Paracelsus IX

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa, 

I will warn you, I am in a dangerous mood. Sarcasm rolls off me like static off a black cat and people find excuses to be someplace else. I've quarreled with Dana, with Poppy, Byers, and with my bastard stepfather, who I punched as we sat down to dinner. Knocking him senseless was no loss to the conversation, but he did get blood on the tablecloth, and I will hear about that. I would have quarreled with our son, except Sam does not quarrel. The closest to quarreling with Samuel is arguing with the back of his head as he shrugs and walks away. After dinner, little Sadie's father asked me if I favored the poet Walt Whitman. I said I did, so he kissed me on the mouth.

Thanksgiving dinner was not a success.

Since I am angry at the world, I will confess I get angry at you sometimes, Melly, though I know I shouldn't. Dana once told me she knew she should not feel a certain way, and yet she still did. Of all the times you needlessly fretted I was upset with you, it seems unfair to be angry with you for dying.

But I am. 

Knowing I have no right to be angry makes me angrier. You wanted to die, but I never wanted to lose you to darkness. Neither did our son.

Occasionally, hints of my Sammy show through cracks in the plaster walls around him, and I think I can rip the chunks away and reach him. 

But I cannot. 

I would feel better if Sam would pout and stomp and yell his pain is my fault - I killed his mother and I'm betraying her with another woman. 

But he does not.

He's painfully polite to Dana and to me. He likes Emmy, and has asked several times about the baby, worried something will happen to Dana, I think. He has a tutor - or a series of them, rather - which gives him someone to frustrate besides me. Sam comes to the newspaper in the afternoon, sits in his corner, and does his engravings. He plays cello - or any other instrument they ask him to - in the symphony. He scratches away behind his sketch pad. Each day Sam seems better, and I want to think he's better, but something inside me senses he feels he's been sent to spend the summer with his boring spinster aunt; he's biding his time until he can leave.

After you and Father died, after the war, I couldn't find Sam, and I felt like my heart broke in two. Instead of blood, rust-colored dust spilled out. I had nothing left inside me to bleed. When Sammy says he doesn't feel real, I understand. When he says he can't talk about the war - or you or our Sarah or my father - I understand. I want to shake him and yell I understand, because he does not seem to understand I do.

I forget, contrary to what Dana claims, I'm not my son's hero anymore. I can't kiss it and make it better, nor does he want me to try. Sam is like Dana; the harder I push, the harder I push him away. I forget he no longer believes me when I say, “It will be fine.”

Well, I would not believe me either.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Melly could run naked through the streets and people would have sighed, shook their heads, and said, "There’s Melissa Mulder, Congressman Kavanaugh's daughter and Senator Mulder's daughter-in-law, cousin to my Aunt Phyllis Morton of the Nashville Mortons, twice removed. Poor thing's naked as a jaybird, bless her little heart. For God's sake, someone get Fox." Among bluebloods, any shortcoming was excused by adding "bless his little heart" after it, as in "Nathan likes to wear women's red flannel drawers and be whipped with a riding crop, bless his little heart."

Dana got no such leeway. She was a newcomer, a word pronounced as if it had soured. The characteristics Mulder valued in her - intelligence, wit, courage, forthrightness - were met with suspicion. Dana remained an enigma in a society that liked to know the answer to every question before it was asked. Dana wasn't one of them, nor did Washington's polite society have any intention of letting her become one of them.

"Do you think she minds?" a young woman's voice asked as a lace fan swished idly. "Minds the colored girl, I mean? Lilly, Rosie, Violet - whatever her name is. Do you suppose the new patty wife minds? In the house and all..." 

"I think," another female voice answered cattily, "The question should be 'does the colored girl mind the new patty wife?'"

The society ladies believed because the Mulders' box at the opera was empty earlier, it remained empty. Unfortunately for the gossips in the hall behind him, on the other side of the velvet curtain, Mulder heard every word. 

So did Dana. 

Mulder clenched his teeth and tapped his fists lightly on the arms of his chair. They'd slipped in after the lights dimmed, avoiding scrutiny, and would slip out early while the lobby was still empty. So long as Dana sat or wore a cape, Harvey wasn't obvious. Dana had heard Samuel practicing. Mulder didn't see why she couldn't unobtrusively attend the opening night performance. People would talk, but people always talked.

He heard whispering he couldn't make out, and, "What do you expect? He averaging a baby a year. Melissa, the housekeeper, the new wife. If the new wife's big-bellied again, did the housekeeper missed her turn?"

There was a flurry of giggles and admonishments the speaker was "So wicked!"

"Well! I bet you get more than a headache every night if he’s your husband!"

"If Fox Mulder was my husband, I wouldn't need to get a headache," the first woman responded, still swishing her fan. "And he wouldn't be tomcatting around with the nigger help."

"You know why Melissa did it, don't you? She caught them," a new woman added dramatically, as Mulder's ears burned. "She walked in on them." 

Mulder started to stand, not sure what he planned to say or do, but certain he'd think of something. Dana put her hand on his forearm, stopping him.

"Samuel," Dana said quietly. The orchestra returned and the gaslights beside the stage dimmed, signaling the end of intermission.

Mulder sat back, clapping politely as he gritted his teeth. On stage, Samuel's smooth face was out of place among the bushy gray beards and time-weathered skin. Sam made adjustments to his cello and the sheet music in front of him. He scanned the boxes. Mulder nodded in acknowledgment. Sam nodded back and glanced at the back of the auditorium. Finding the other person he looked for, Samuel drew his bow across the strings and focused on the conductor, waiting.

Following Sam's gaze, Mulder saw Poppy sitting alone, high in the balcony, in the colored section. He recognized the intricate silk bodice of the rose-colored evening dress she wore; it was one of Melissa's castoffs.

The auditorium darkened, and the conductor raised his baton. 

Mulder put his head close to Dana's and whispered, "That's not true. What those women said; it's not true."

She nodded. The violinists inhaled and embraced Mozart's frenzied notes with their horsehair bows.

*~*~*~*

Mulder helped Dana into the carriage, and made sure she was warm and comfortable. After she assured him she probably wouldn't catch frostbite in October, he returned inside to meet Samuel.

The first of the audience emerged from the auditorium and streamed into the lobby. Mulder moved against the tide, working his way around the edges and toward the stage.

He saw a handsome, dark-haired man try to speak to Poppy as she left the balcony. The man reached for her hand. She jerked away and walked on, leaving him standing alone at the bottom of the steps looking embarrassed. Alex, Mulder realized. He thought of Sadie's oddly familiar features, and the many military hospitals in DC during the war, overflowing with maimed and convalescing soldiers - and the puzzle pieces fell into place. Under normal circumstances, a woman like Poppy was far out of Alex's reach, but the wartime pickings had been slim. Or, in the craziness of the war, they found love - or at least something passing for it - long enough to conceive a child.

As of late, Alex was one of Spender's cronies, but probably not his son. Alex was one of those mysterious bastards that happen in wealthy families. From the look of him, he belonged to the family tree, but no one recalled which branch crossed with a pretty Russian chambermaid a few decades ago. Alex was a charming ne'er-do-well, quick to exploit his family's connections if he was short of funds. Alex was always short of funds, yet adverse to any actual work. Like Spender's resemblance to Bill Mulder, Alex's resemblance to Mulder was only skin deep. 

Alex, seeing Mulder watching, raised his hand in greeting. His other tuxedo sleeve hung empty and neatly pinned closed. Mulder waved in return, smiling sympathetically. They weren't close, but Mulder wouldn’t call Alex an enemy, either. Alex was family - the kind loaned money if he asked, but not invited to Christmas parties.

The little devil on Mulder's left shoulder whispered evil suggestion. Mulder stopped at one of the lower boxes and leaned carelessly on the brass railing around the front.

A lace fan stopped swishing. An attractive blonde woman blinked in surprise before she smiled enticingly. Mulder could have told Mrs. Andrew Wilder to stop pretending headaches; Mr. Andrew Wilder had a mistress in an apartment on L Street, and a prostitute in Mary Hall's brothel on Maryland Avenue he'd visited every Tuesday for years. Owning a newspaper meant Mulder knew everyone's dirty laundry, whether he printed it or not.

"The Negro woman," he told her, for her edification. "My housekeeper: her name is Poppy. Poppy Kavanaugh. My wife's name is 'Dana,' not Patty. Dana Mulder."

He smiled encouragingly at her red-faced mortification, as though he genuinely hoped her memory would improve. Mulder went to the stage door to wait for Sam.

*~*~*~*

Dana mumbled the Gaelic equivalent of "Put me down; I can walk," but made no effort to do so and appeared content to spend the night the carriage. She fell asleep on the way home, soothed by the gentle rocking and safe against Mulder’s shoulder. Instead of waking her, Sam held the door open while Mulder carried her into the house and up the stairs to their bedroom.

"I carried you over the threshold," Mulder teased as he helped her out of her evening dress and petticoats.

Dana stared at him sleepily. She handed Mulder her satin slippers before turning and crawling up on the mattress, still in her chemise and stockings. He kissed her forehead and belly as he tucked her in, and closed the bedroom door as he left.

"You love her, don't you?" Samuel said as Mulder returned to the kitchen, humming to himself. "Dana."

Caught off-guard, he responded, "I care very..." He glanced at his son, seeing the dark, earnest eyes focused on him. "Yes, I do love her."

"She loves you. She argues with you, she does."

"Loving someone doesn't mean you agree with them. I told you: she's nice, but different from your mother. She's asleep, though, so we'll get some peace and quiet. We have too many headstrong women in this house and not enough men. They have us outnumbered. Reinforcements are on the way, though. We're gaining on them."

"I'm glad."

Mulder waited, trying to figure out what his son was glad about. Sam focused on making tea as though they had reached a normal stopping point for the discussion. 

"I thought you were wonderful tonight. So did Dana; she was impressed. We agreed you're the best in your row," Mulder added, limping through the one-sided conversation.

His son didn't laugh.

"If you want, we can go hunting tomorrow. Do you think Amazing Grace remembers how to flush out rabbits?"

"I'd miss church with Grandmother."

"Well, we could, we could go early. Before dawn. You could be back in time. Grandmother wouldn't mind if you missed this once. We haven't been hunting in forever. Or riding. Would you rather go riding?" Mulder asked, thinking Sam might not like the sound of rifle fire. 

Samuel shrugged. 

"Sam, please talk to me. Whatever you want to say, I want to hear it. Whatever's wrong, I want to fix it, but you have to tell me."

His son shrugged and set two steaming cups on the table as they sat down. 

"I know this is hard. So much has changed, but I-" 

"You don't have to do this, Father,” Samuel said politely. “Make plans, come to hear me play, act like you want me here. You have a new life. I'm a leftover obligation from the old one," he said, sounding far removed from the situation. 

Mulder took a breath before he answered, "You are my life. You have been my life since I was barely older than you." 

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, leaving them on his crown as he leaned his elbow on the table. 

"The war ended, but instead of marching in the parade, I watched it,” Mulder said. “For three days, I watched every soldier who came down Pennsylvania Avenue, searching for you. I came here, and Poppy and I sat on the front steps, waiting. Days passed, and weeks, and you didn't come. Your mother was dead. I couldn't go in our bedroom or the bathroom because all I saw was her laying there. I saw the coffin in the parlor. I smelled her perfume. Poppy took your mother's hat off the hat rack, and I screamed at her. Grandfather was dead. The baby - your sister - was dead. And you didn't come home. I went back to Atlanta, to Charleston and Savannah, looking for you. I-" Mulder’s voice broke. "I had to find you. Everything else, I could bear, but not losing you."

"You met Dana."

"Yes, and I met Dana. If you want to be angry with someone about Dana, please be angry with me. Not her. She's trying so hard to be your friend."

Sam gnawed his lower lip uncertainly. 

"She likes you, Sammy. She wants you here as much as I do."

"There's no place for me here," his son said matter-of-factly. 

"There is. There always has been a place, and there always will be. How can you possibly think that?"

Another shrug. After a few seconds, Sam got up and went upstairs, leaving his teacup on the table. As Mulder listened, he heard Sam go, not to bed, but to the nursery. The crib rail squeaked as he picked up Emily, and the rocking chair scuffed as Sam dragged it across the wooden floor to the window. 

Mulder checked later. Emily slept in Sam's arms, and Sam slept in the rocking chair with his feet propped on the window seat. Mulder took Emily and whispered for Sam to go to bed, which the boy did without waking, like he had at five years old. Amazing Grace looked up, debating between guarding Emily and guarding Sam, but waddled after his boy.

*~*~*~*

It took more effort for Dana to roll over, but she did, and found Mulder sitting on the edge of the bed. He held a cup of tepid tea and stared at her.

"What is it?" she asked, scooting up on the pillows. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing. I was checking on you," he whispered. Mulder set the teacup down and put his hand on her belly again. "Seeing if Harvey was awake. I didn't mean to bother you. Go back to sleep; you need to rest."

She moved his palm so he felt the hardness of a tiny head or bottom pressing against her skin. 

"Heaven forbid you bother me. I barely remember the last time we bothered each other."

"Dana..." Mulder mumbled sheepishly, stroking her abdomen.

"I would settle for opening my eyes and having you in bed instead of on the sofa. We can even draw a line down the center of the mattress and both be sure not to cross it." She tugged at the starched front of his tuxedo shirt. "Lie down. I promise I will not tell anyone."

He grumbled but let her maneuver him down, pillowing his head on her chest and stretching his legs out across the bed.

"What those women said at the theater tonight? It's not true. Not about Poppy or anyone else. I told you, I wouldn't have done that to Melly. Or Sam. I would never let either of them walk in and find me with another woman."

"I know," she murmured, toying with his hair. It felt nice - being close to her, being still with her.

"I wouldn't do that to you, either," he added belatedly. "There’s no other woman, Dana. But with the baby, with Sam here-"

"Mr. Frohike offered to come over and fulfill your husbandly duties."

Mulder raised one eyebrow, looking up at her.

"I told Mr. Frohike Thursday afternoons are fine," she deadpanned, and her chest jiggled as she laughed.

"You are a wicked, wicked woman. I can hear your heart," he said softly, and closed his eyes. "Sam said he isn't part of my life; he's a leftover obligation who doesn't belong. Dana, I think he's doing better, but he announces that. I never know what to say to him. It's like trying to navigate by a compass randomly pointing every direction except north."

"Be patient. You want him to heal faster than he is able, and he tries to pretend to please you."

"Why would he?"

"Because he idolizes you. Dense, Mr. Mulder. You can be a little dense. Sit up," she requested. She rubbed her hand over her belly and rested her palm against one side. "Here. Put your ear here."

"Why?"

"Listen," she whispered. He laid his head where she indicated, wondering what in the world he listened for. "Can you hear it? It should sound like mine, but faster and fainter."

Mulder narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to filter out the sounds of the house and the street. He smiled and answered wondrously, "Yes. I hear something. It sounds like he's pounding on a little wet drum. What is it?"

"His heart."

"His heart?"

She nodded, staying quiet as he listened.

"It's so fast."

"It is supposed to be fast."

"Who told you?"

"My mother."

He listened for a long time, laying one arm along her body and looping one over her belly. The sound of the baby was comforting, like the ocean. 

"I'm going to Boston in a few weeks," he said quietly. "To address the legislature before they nominate the new senators. Spender is bucking to be nominated and I want to make sure he isn't. I thought I'd take Sam with me. Maybe stop in New York for a bit, the two of us. Spend some time together. Will you and Emily be all right?"

"We will be fine. I think the trip would be good for you and Samuel. You will be back, though, before the baby comes?"

"Of course.” He paused. “Dana, would you like me to try to find your mother while I’m in New York?"

"I would not know where to tell you to begin looking. I do not know if she is still in New York. She does not speak English."

"I don't think it would be hard to find an Irish midwife in New York. She probably gets a widow's pension."

"I- No, I do not think you could find her, but thank you for offering," she said politely.

"You sound as though you don't want me to try." 

"No, I would rather you did not try."

"Tell me why," he requested. 

"No," she said firmly.

He raised his head, frowning at her. "No? She’s your mother. My mother-in-law. I would like an explanation."

She set her jaw, ignoring him.

"Dana, I asked you a question." 

He used the tone that made Melly's lower lip tremble, but Dana continued studiously ignoring him.

*~*~*~* 

Unlike Samuel, before Mulder had interrupted his parents, he knocked. Twenty minutes after everyone retired for the night, he suspected what he interrupted, which added to his embarrassment.

"Mother, Melly wants you," Mulder had called through the door. He felt foolish standing in the hotel hallway with his shirt open and his trousers half-buttoned. He smoothed his hair, fastened his clothes, and tucked in his shirt.

The bed creaked. His father's voice answered, "Can it wait, Fox?"

"She's upset. She wants Mother."

Unfortunately, Mulder heard his father's frustrated whisper. "As do I. Dear, please wean these children."

"Hush," his mother’s voice responded, and louder, "I'm coming. Tell her, Fox."

Mulder shuffled back across the hall to convey the message. "Mother says she’s coming." Melly had the sheets pulled up to her chin and watched him with terrified brown eyes. "Stop, honey. For God's sake, I'm not going to hurt you. You're my wife and you're acting like we're strangers."

"Go 'way!"

"I am away," he snapped. "If you don't want me to touch you, I won't!"

"I don't like you! You're not a nice man."

"Stop it! Stop the baby voice. You're-"

A soft knock at the hotel door interrupted him. Mulder answered the door. His mother wore an elaborate dressing gown and a less-than-enthusiastic expression.

"What happened?" Teena Mulder looked from her son to the rumpled bed and back again. "Fox, shouldn't your father handle this?"

"Nothing happened. She's upset. She started crying and wouldn't calm down until I said I'd get you."

His mother stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "Did you do something to upset her?"

"No," he insisted self-righteously. "Of course, I didn't."

“Fox, she wants to please you, but you cannot upset her. She is young. You have to be-” His mother hunted for a word. “Patient. Gentle. Which I am sure you can be; you two have Samuel.”

Mulder stared at her as his face grew even hotter. He never imagined having this conversation with his mother. “If there is a way to be more patient or gentle, I wish someone would share it with me,” he responded truthfully. 

“You did something or she would not be upset. Perhaps you are too-” Teena Mulder hesitated again. “Hasty.”

Mulder flushed scarlet.

"Well, I have her," his mother said uncertainly. She sat on the bed. Melissa scooted toward her, still glaring at Mulder. "You go talk to your father."

"I'm eighteen years old,” he muttered under his breath as he stalked out. “I think it's too late to have ‘that talk’ with my father,"

Mulder made a few laps up and down the hall, cooling off. He wanted to say, “to hell with it” and walk back to his room at Harvard, but he didn’t have his shoes. Once his pride healed, Mulder shoved his fists in his pockets and wandered to the room beside his parents' suite.

"What happened?" Poppy asked. The bodice of her dress was open, and she lay on the bed with Sam. Sammie had one hand on her bare breast as he nursed.  
Mulder averted his eyes, but Poppy made no move to cover up.

Mulder’s parents were, at best, lukewarm to Poppy as their grandson’s nursemaid. Bill Mulder disapproved of her many male suitors, and Teena Mulder disapproved in general. Poppy caused strife among the household staff, according to his mother. She was high-strung and forgot her place, according to his father. Having Poppy take care of Sammie made Melissa happy, though. Mulder got lengthy letters from his parents detailing Poppy’s shortcomings, but so far, she remained with the Mulder household. 

"Fox, what happened?" Poppy repeated.

"Nothing," Mulder answered honestly. He slouched in a chair beside the bed and stared out the window. He didn’t look, but he listened to the sound of Sam's mouth against her nipple. The sucking slowed, stopped, and switched to tiny baby snores. "All the doctors say she's better," he said, thinking aloud. "She seems better. Melly was fine at dinner. She ate. She smiled. She laughed." He exhaled, slouched lower, and asked, "Does she love me, Poppy?"

"Does Miss Melissa love you? I couldn't say," she answered, playing dumb. 

"You'd know better than anyone else. Melly says she does, but- Was it because of..." He nodded toward Sam. "We haven't even been married two years. Does she not love me?" 

"I think she loves you. She's looked forward to seeing you." 

"What am I doing wrong?" 

He didn't need to elaborate. The fact he'd undressed, hurriedly dressed again, and was anywhere besides in bed with his beautiful young wife at ten o'clock at night was explanation enough.

Poppy answered, "She's a lady. Ladies don't think of those things the way men do. Men or gentlemen, it's the same, but not women and ladies. Folks say ladies don't even feel the need at all."

Mulder glanced at her, listening. He had never, even in the most roundabout way, discussed marital relations with a woman until tonight.

"Are you wanting a baby, Fox?"

"No," he answered quickly and truthfully. 

"She's a lady, and she's your wife. She loves you. If you love her - it's not nice to bother Miss Melissa for sport.”

"That makes sense," he mumbled, though it didn't. 

His mother was a lady, but Mulder never knew his father to bother another woman. Nor did Mother flinch as Bill Mulder touched her. In fact, she didn’t seem to mind. Once, after a dinner party in which a great quantity of wine was served, Mulder overheard Mother whisper to Father to bid their guests a hasty goodnight and take her to bed. Mulder had judged his mother tipsy but not sleepy. 

While Mulder didn’t expect Melly to be thrilled with the act of intercourse, he didn’t understand what repulsed her about the kissing and touching leading up to it. Sarah hadn’t acted like this - but Sarah had known, regardless of how she kissed and touched him, his trousers would remain on. 

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Mulder insisted.

Poppy looked at him like Mulder was dim. “She’s a lady. Of course, you will.”

He opened his mouth but closed it without speaking. No, that could not be true. His father would not purposefully hurt his mother “for sport,” as Poppy said. Nor would any man who cared for a woman. Not if she found the act disgusting and painful, as Melly did. Melissa had no hesitation about pleasing him in every other way. If Mulder said the sky was falling, Melly would have agreed and moved the china to the cellar for safekeeping. Either he greatly misjudged what went on behind genteel bedroom doors all along the East Coast, or he was doing something wrong.

Poppy sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The front of her dress remained open. 

Mulder looked away.

She asked, “Are you embarrassed?"

"I'm not embarrassed," he lied, his face hot again. "I was thinking about what you said."

In the darkness, she seemed close to him, and warm. Instead of French perfume, she smelled of every-day things: lye soap and baked apples and cotton. She smelled like home - of a time he’d thought life was fair and would work out the way he'd planned it.

"You are embarrassed. You're red." She put her cool hand on his cheek. "Silly boy."

"It's hot in here."

"Take off your shirt, if you're going to stay. It needs to be warm for the baby."

He fumbled to comply but stopped. He'd grown up with Poppy, and she was his friend, but he saw why she had so many admirers.

"I will help," she offered. "Help you get undressed and lay down."

"I'm fine," he said nervously, his voice breaking. 

She leaned closer and whispered in Mulder’s ear. "I could tell you what women want. Would you like that?"

He bit his lip hard and, after a dry swallow, nodded. 

Her mouth moved down his jaw to his throat. He closed his eyes. "Or you want me to show you?" she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Mulder felt boneless, as though she could mold him any way she pleased. Her hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, and to his groin. She cupped and squeezed the bulge. Mulder moaned and opened his eyes. He saw Sammy asleep behind Poppy. He closed his eyes again.

"You ever been with Melissa?" she murmured. She urged Mulder’s hands to her breasts. He unbuttoned the few buttons she'd fastened on her calico dress, and cupped her breasts in his hands, pushing the soft, heavy weight upward. "You ain't. You never been with any woman."

“Of course I have.” Not since Samuel had come, but four times between the wedding and his departure for Harvard two weeks later. Five times, counting Samuel's conception. Six, if he counted the aborted attempt tonight.

"You have?" Poppy asked, pulling back.

"Of course I have," he repeated breathlessly. He kissed her, penetrating deep into her mouth with his tongue. 

Poppy pulled back, wiped her mouth, and guessed, "Some shop girl?"

"Don't be silly." He felt her nipples against his palms and her skin soft against his. With increasing urgency, he pulled the white kerchief off her head. Her long, black hair fell over her shoulders. She kept it covered, but she had hair like Melly and Sarah's. She looked so much like them he could easily pretend she was either.

"Come here," he said huskily. He pulled her off the bed and lowered her to the floor. There were no more thoughts. Instinct took over, sweeping him along like a raging river.

It was wrong - with Poppy - and he knew it was wrong. That didn't make him pull away. In the darkness, Mulder let his imagination and base nature take over, giving himself permission, once, to pretend what should have been.

"Fox, slow down. I don't think-" Poppy’s accent sounded like cotton fields rather than old southern money, spoiling his fantasy. "Please."

"Don't talk," he requested. He stoked her hair and lowered his mouth to her breast.

Poppy pushed him away and ordered him to stop.

As soon as she did, the erotic spell broke and became gut-wrenching disgust. This woman wasn't his wife. Or Sarah. Poppy didn't want him. She was his son's nursemaid, and he forced himself on her on the floor beside his son's bed. Mulder opened his mouth to apologize, still laying on top of her, but his father opened the bedroom door.

*~*~*~*

Mulder woke to the haunting guitar notes lilting down the hall and making their way into his dreams.

He scooted over and put his head on the pillow beside Dana’s. "How long has he been playing?" he whispered to her. The windows remained dark, with no hint of dawn approaching. Mulder judged it was three or four in the morning. A typical time to discover Sam awake and roaming the house.

"A few minutes," Dana answered.

Mulder wrapped his arm around her, listening to the guitar play. "Air on a G String," he said quietly, recognizing the sad melody. "Bach. It was one of Melly's favorites."

At the other end of the hall, a door opened and bare feet made their way to the top of the stairs. Mulder heard Poppy’s voice. Samuel responded affirmatively. A floorboard creaked as she sat down on the step. Without hesitation, the guitar slid from Bach into the rhythm a Negro spiritual. After a few seconds, Poppy's pretty mezzo-soprano joined Sam's smooth voice.

"He's a tenor," Mulder whispered, curled up to Dana with a hand on her belly.

"A beautiful tenor," Dana said.

"The last time I heard him sing, he was a treble. Before his voice changed. Before the war. He used to sing in the boys' choir."

He and Dana lay in the darkness and listened to Sam's fingers dancing over the strings, and Samuel and Poppy's voices singing softly.

"I should get up," Mulder decided, since he was the father and knew the right thing to do. "Talk to him."

"Stay here," Dana answered softly. She covered his hand with hers on her belly. “We do not speak this language."

Dana was right, but she didn't make Mulder feel better.

"I'm glad Poppy's with him," he commented.

In the distance, a train whistle pierced the night. Mulder curled closer to Dana. He pulled the covers higher and rested his hand on her belly again. Dana put her hand on top of his again, making small circles with her thumb, soothing him as they listened.

*~*~*~*

"You don't remember being here?" Mulder asked as Sam looked around the observatory. "Even being at Harvard at all? You don't remember me carrying you around the yard on my shoulders? You and Byers making a tent out of the blankets in our room? You don't remember getting sick after my graduation and vomiting on the Dean?"

"No." His son shrugged one shoulder, an improvement over shrugging both shoulders.

"You were barely three. I promise you've been here. Many times. You were an expert rail-rider before you were out of diapers." 

Samuel examined the fifteen-inch telescope. He climbed into the metal chair and squinted through the eyepiece. "Was this here?" he asked, showing the first glimmer of interest Mulder had seen in days.

"It was. I tried to show you the rings of Saturn one night, but you were too little to understand." 

"I wish I could see them now," he answered. "But it must be dark, mustn’t it?"

"Yes, and we have a train to catch. We'll come back."

"After the baby comes. Dana can come with us. She would like this. She likes scientific things."

"Yes, she does," Mulder answered, though surprised his son had noticed. "This observatory is called the Dana House."

"After her?"

"No, not after her. Our Dana wasn't born when the house was built. Neither was I. The University added the observatory and the telescope later. The Dana family owned the house, originally. No relation."

"Oh," Sam answered, and twisted his mouth sheepishly.

Mulder leaned back against the edge of a table. "Do you think you would like to live in Boston? If you decide against West Point, you could go to Harvard and still be close to home." 

"What about the London Music Conservatory?

"Or London,” Mulder responded easily. “You have plenty of time to decide," he assured Sam, though he felt a chill go down his spine as Bill Mulder rolled over in his grave: his grandson attending a music conservatory.

Mulder held open the door and followed Sam to the porch. They stood on the front steps. The passing students leaned into the cold November wind to keep their balance. If Dana liked snow, she'd see plenty of it in Massachusetts. 

"If I accept the nomination, we'd have to move,” Mulder told Sam. “Not come up for a month in the summer but have a residence in Massachusetts. Byers could run the paper and we could keep the house in DC, but a senator must live primarily in the state he represents. Your grandparents still have a big house in Boston accruing dust and taxes. How do you feel about living there?"

Sam shoved his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders. "I didn't think you wanted to be a senator."

"I didn't. I still don't. It wasn't the point of me addressing the legislature, but since it's offered... I know I'm not corrupt. I know I'd do a good job. I'd try, and at least I'm not Spender. But Spender doesn't have a baby coming in six weeks," Mulder said, thinking aloud.

His son looked up, puzzled.

Mulder explained. "If I accept, I'd have to be Massachusetts by January first. Dana can't travel, but I'd have to be living here when the legislature appoints me. I'd either have to leave DC right after the baby comes or, if he's late, I wouldn't be there at all. I don't like either of those possibilities."

The cold air stung the inside of his nose and the back of his throat.

"I don't know how Dana would feel about the dinners and galas and hoopla of being a senator's wife. Your grandmother loved it. I'd rather be tortured by the Spanish Inquisition, so I can imagine Dana's reaction. And you. I grew up with everyone in America knowing who my father was. As soon as I said my last name, people had expectations. If I didn't live up to their expectations, they acted like I'd failed them. They still do. I don't want you living in your father’s shadow like I do.”

"My father is Fox Mulder, sir," Sam answered softly. “Colonel Mulder.” After a pause, he added in the same hollowly polite tone, “I’m the boy who plays cello and has art lessons and can’t play baseball.”

“My father was Senator Bill Mulder. I’m the man who runs the newspaper and has a sixteen-month-old daughter with a headstrong Irish bluestocking he’s been married to for fourteen months,” Mulder said.

He’d never told Samuel, but Mulder suspected the boy could count. Samuel knew Emily’s birthday, and Mulder and Dana’s anniversary. If not, the rest of DC could add up the months. Sam would know soon enough.

“I wouldn’t change any of that,” Mulder said firmly. He wrapped his scarf tight around his beck and ducked his head into the wind he descended the wooden stairs. Samuel fell in step behind him, crunching across the frozen yard. Neither spoke until they turned toward the hotel. 

"Grandfather would be proud of you. If you decide to accept, he'd be proud," his son assured him.

"I know, Sammy."

*~*~*~*

After a New York omnibus, a cab, and a white lie to Sam, Mulder reached Trinity Church. He searched for ten minutes before he found the gravestone. Trinity was a wealthy church, attended by New York's most prominent families, and so the graveyard had markers for congressmen, war heroes, and captains of industry. Alexander Hamilton lay buried there. So did Robert Fulton, who designed the first successful steam boat and working submarine. John Peter Zenger was there: the newspaper publisher whose trial had germinated the right to freedom of speech in America. 

Alone on the graveyard, Mulder wiped the snow off an ornate headstone to make out the lettering. The marker said 'Wife.' Not even 'Anne.' Engraved in the right side of the stone were her husband's name and age, and a few lines of scripture, but in the right the marker, 'wife.' She had no date of death, but it had been the same as her husband's. Anne had been twenty-four-years old and forgotten to history except for being a wealthy man's young wife.

Mulder stared at the stone for a few minutes and placed the bouquet of hothouse flowers on the graves. He put the flowers dead-center between the two, like a business acquaintance paying his respects to both. 

"Another time," he promised softly. His voice still sounded too loud in the silent cemetery. "Another life." If he got a second chance, he would act differently. He never would, though. Some souls seemed fated to meet, no matter how much they blundered about. Others - their paths crossed randomly, and only if both strayed far from wherever Fate intended them. They had one chance in a thousand lifetimes in the vastness of the universe - and the chance never came again. That wasn't Destiny, but resilience in the antithesis of it.

Like many things, knowledge came in hindsight; he could not know the rarity of what he had until he'd lost it. 

"I am sorry," Mulder told the grave, years too late. 

Darkness approached, and he'd promised Samuel he'd be back for dinner at the hotel. “A quick trip to see an old friend,” Mulder had said.

*~*~*~*

Even on a good day, Dana could be a challenge. Or plain difficult, depending on how generous Mulder felt. She had and trusted her own opinions, and wasn't hesitant about sharing them - particularly with him. If Mulder disagreed with Dana, she folded her arms, pursed her lips, pushed her eyebrows together, and looked at him like he'd blown his nose on her skirt.

At first, Mulder blamed her stubbornness on relying on herself for so long. The war took able-bodied men from their homes for years, leaving women in the south to assume previously unheard-of roles and responsibilities. He'd thought, in time, Dana would stop questioning his every move. 

Mulder had been dead wrong, but he married her anyway. Dana was generally difficult in an unintentionally erotic way, which explained why most of their arguments began in the library and ended in bed.

But if Dana wanted to work at it, she turned being difficult into an art form. 

Dana never told Mulder her maiden name, let alone her mother’s name. He didn't have an address or a description of her mother, aside from being Irish and a midwife. The only link he could think to track down was her father and brothers - Bill and Charlie - dying on the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay. Less than a hundred men were aboard, so he’d easily located a William - two Williams - and a Charles with the same last name. Two Lieutenants and a Captain Scully. From there, Mulder checked the pensions for Federal widows and arrived at a series of tenement buildings in the immigrant section of Manhattan on Houston Street.

"Wait here," Mulder told Sam, and closed the door of the cab.

His son nodded as he sketched the street vendors.

Mulder stood on the sidewalk, trying to devise a plan. Lilting Gaelic and gravelly German voices surrounded him. The address wasn’t a single residence, but an entire city block.

He stopped a passing redheaded matron and said slowly, "Mrs. Margaret Scully." Mulder patted his stomach and held his arms as if he rocked a baby.

The woman answered something in Gaelic that wasn't ‘I love you,' 'I am fine,' or 'Get off my hair.' She pointed to the top of a brick building on her left. 

Using that method, Mulder he made his way through maze of buildings, alleys, and staircases. The sounds and smells of too many families' laundry and suppers and children filled the air. "Mrs. Margaret Scully?" he repeated when he reached the top floor. A stout German man pointed at a door and gestured for Mulder to knock. 

The petite woman who answered wore black calico, and a small gold cross around her neck identical to one Dana wore. Her coloring was darker, but the delicate bone structure was the same, as though there were a few fairy folk among her long-forgotten ancestors. 

"Mrs. Margaret Scully?" he asked. 

She nodded. Mrs. Scully looked him up and down, and asked, "Hat ihre frau das kleinkind?" as she dried her hands and untied her apron. He wrinkled his forehead, trying to translate her bad German. "Do bean cheile - An bhfuil do bean ceile ag iompar clainne?" He continued staring at her. She sighed and asked, "Bean chabhrach?" slowly. "Torrach? Bab?"

"Baby?" Mulder responded, understanding the last word. "Yes - I mean no," he answered. As he pantomimed his way to her door, he received congratulations in four languages. The German man patted his shoulder and offered a tattered cigar. "I mean yes, my wife is to have a baby, but no, not yet, and no, that's not why I'm here."

Mrs. Scully regarded him warily, exactly as Emily did, sometimes.

Mulder took a small, framed daguerreotype from his coat pocket; he’d stolen it from Dana's dressing table and hidden in his valise before he left DC. Mulder showed Mrs. Scully the picture of Dana's father and brothers in their Navy uniforms, with the father seated and the sons standing on either side of him. "Was this your family? Husband? Sons?" he asked slowly, pointing back and forth between Margaret and the sepia-colored daguerreotype.

She responded with a long explanation sounding affirmative.

Mulder looked past her, into the flat, trying to see something Dana might find objectionable. He saw a clean, homey room that looked comfortable enough. Not lavish, but not impoverished, either. As a midwife, Margaret Scully lived better than most immigrants. Unfortunately, he saw no big sign with an arrow reading 'this is why I won't speak to my mother.'

Mrs. Scully still stood in the doorway, waiting.

Hoping he made the right decision, Mulder opened his pocket watch. He showed her the photograph inside front cover. Mulder liked photographs, but Dana detested posing, and it had taken a week's pestering before she agreed. He'd been standing behind the photographer, teasing her, and her expression was a charming mixture of annoyance and amusement. Mulder loved the resulting photograph as much as she hated it.

"Dana," she said. Mrs. Scully looked at Mulder as if wondering who he was.

In response, he tapped his wedding ring. He turned his watch over and opened the back cover, showing her one of the two pictures secreted there. "Emily."

She examined it closely, and pointed to the third picture in his pocket watch. The photograph was the last one of Sam with Melly, taken the spring Sam was thirteen and before Melly showed with Sarah.

"Samuel," he answered. He put his hand on his chest. "Mine. My son."

She pointed to Melissa's image and to his wedding ring. Mulder nodded again, but realized he’d probably communicated Melly was his wife and Dana his mistress.

Mrs. Scully turned away. Uncertain if they’d finished speaking, Mulder waited. He noticed her neighbors peering out their doorways, keeping tabs on him.

"Dana," Margaret Scully said. She returned with a stack of envelopes, tied with twine into a neat bundle. "Dana," she repeated, handing them to Mulder. The top one had been postmarked in New York in October 1861, sent to a street address in Savannah, and returned unopened.

"All right. Yes, I'll give them to her. To Dana."

She nodded. Mulder nodded. Mrs. Scully nodded again. 

After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, she put her hand on the door as if she expected Mulder to leave. So he did.

*~*~*~*

John Byers’ parents died when Byers was in his teens, leaving him alone in the world. Byers attended Harvard on their life insurance money, a scholarship, and an evening job clerking in the Dean's office. Mulder refrained from carousing with the other students because of Melly. Aside from being too shy, Byers couldn't afford the saloons and brothels, so he and Mulder had spent many evenings bent over their books together. 

As odd a pairing as it was - Mulder who had every luxury handed to him and Byers who struggled for every morsel – they became close friends. John Byers was quiet and honest to a fault. Earnest in a way that made people want to pat him on the head and pinch his cheek. He'd discuss politics and literature for hours, but mention women and he blushed scarlet. How Byers managed to ask Susanne to marry him was a mystery; Mulder suspected she'd proposed to him.

Mulder stuck his head around the corner of the lobby and into Byers’ office.  
"Do you have a few minutes?" Mulder asked.

His editor-in-chief looked over the stacks of books and articles on his desk, smiled, and answered, "Always. Come in."

"I thought we could get a cup of coffee." 

Byers stood. He pushed his chair back into place before he put on his coat and picked up his hat. Mulder had the feeling he could have said, “let's go roll in manure” and Byers would have agreed. 

Mulder hemmed and hawed through two cups of coffee in the almost-empty café across the street. Over the third cup, he said, "I'd like to ask a favor. Which I'd like you to keep to yourself."

"Of course," Byers responded. 

Mulder had no doubt he would.

Mulder pulled the bundle of letters out of his inside breast pocket. "I'd like you to read these," he asked. "I'd like to know what they say. I've tried, but I only understand a few words."

"I'll try. I don't read Gaelic as well as I speak it." Byers took the letters, opened one, and scanned the first page. He began to read aloud slowly. "'My dear daughter, I do not understand why you have not written to us. We are..." Byers paused. "Worried. Concerned. 'We are concerned for you. Please write as soon as you are able,' and it's signed 'Margaret Scully.'"

"What about the others?" Mulder asked.

Byers flipped through the pages. "It's more of the same, I think. The handwriting's different in each letter, so the mother's dictating and someone’s writing for her. Some of the spelling and grammar is poor. Here, I believe she's saying her husband and sons have been killed in the war. She asks several times about a doctor named Waterston. In this one, she says she'll be moving and she gives the address and directions to the new flat."

"Is there anything else?"

"It would be better to ask someone more fluent in Gaelic. I’m sure I’m missing nuances, but I think it's the same type of letter, over and over. She's concerned about her daughter..." He glanced down again, scanning the page. "Dana."

Byers put the pages down as his face started to redden.

"Dana was married before. Her husband didn't return from the war. His name was Waterston."

Byers seemed to wait for Mulder to elaborate. Mulder didn't. 

"If you wanted to know what the letters say, wouldn't it be simpler to ask Dana?" Byers said coolly. "And politer, since they are addressed to her?"

"It would be nice if I could. They were returned to her mother unopened." Mulder folded the pages and tucked them into his pocket. "Dana’s never read them. Or she never received them; I'm not sure which."

"Oh," Byers responded. He stood and laid a few coins on the table for the waiter. "I'll see you back at the office.” Byers paused again. “Actually, I'll see you after Thanksgiving. The presses are running; I think I'll take the rest of the afternoon off." 

"Are you angry?" Mulder asked in surprise. "Byers- John?" Byers didn't stop. Mulder got up and followed him to the busy sidewalk. "What's wrong with you? Stop. Please stop!"

Byers stopped. He looked at the slushy street for a moment. “I’m sorry, but I will not be party to this.”

“Party to what? Dana’s my wife,” Mulder insisted. “I have every right to review her correspondence and manage her affairs.”

“And you would deceive her to do so?” 

“If I must. If I believe it’s in her best interest.”

Byers put his hands in his pockets. “What if Dana was to read all those letters you write to Melissa? What if she stumbled onto them and read them without your knowledge or permission? Or what if she brought them to me to read for her?"

Mulder’s face grew hot. "Those letters aren't her business. Or yours."

Byers pointed at Mulder's breast pocket. "Those letters aren't your business."

"Why? What has Dana told you? You two spend enough time with your heads together these days. You're in my kitchen talking gobbledygook every time I turn around."

Byers pushed his eyebrows together angrily. "What are you implying?" he said slowly. "I run your business because, like you, I believe in freedom of the press. In printing the truth. As your friend, I fix your broken window and check on your mother. If I've talked to your wife lately, it's because you're perpetually busy with something else. We've been friends a long time, Mulder. We know each other well, so what exactly are you implying?" 

"Nothing,” Mulder responded. “You're married. Dana’s about to have a baby. I'm not implying anything. I apologize if I gave that impression.”

"Good," Byers responded tersely, and walked away.

*~*~*~*

There was no special occasion or formal invitation. Mulder worked late, tying up loose ends before Thanksgiving, and came home to a house smelling of pies and silver polish and freshly pressed tablecloths. The night seemed the kind best spent near his wife. Mulder told himself he'd lie down with Dana for ten minutes, rationing time and affection like a precious commodity.

After so many nights on the sofa, Mulder felt like a stranger creeping into his own bed. Dana must have felt the same. As Mulder slid between the sheets and curled up to her warm back, she whispered, "I warn you, Mr. Frohike, I am expecting my husband home any minute. He's a very jealous man."

"He's a very foolish man, leaving you alone at night like this."

"He has other things to worry about." She exhaled contentedly as his arms surrounded her. Between her pregnancy and Sam's tendency to roam the house at night, they'd seldom been close - let alone intimate - in months. He missed the softness of her skin against his. 

"Your husband,” Mulder told her, “he thinks about you more than you'd expect. He has many squeaky wheels, and you're the one he can count on to run smoothly."

On cue, a door opened at the other end of the hall. Dana’s second sigh sounded less contented as Mulder pushed up on his elbow and listened, making sure his son headed downstairs and not to the master bedroom. Once the footsteps faded, Mulder laid his head on the pillow again. 

He said they slept separately so Dana could rest. So Sam wouldn't feel awkward coming in if he wanted his father. Dana said she rested better if Mulder slept with her and teenage boys could master knocking. A smart woman, Dana suggested it once, probably knowing logic couldn't compete with guilt.

"Four more weeks," Mulder commented, searching for something neutral to say. 

"A little longer. I do not think I am as big as I was with Emily at eight months."

He put his hand on her round abdomen, feeling. "How much longer? Five weeks? Six?" Four more weeks was Christmas. Six was early January.

"I cannot tell you. I wish I could."

"You're sure you don't want someone here in case I can't be? Your mother? Or someone else?" he added quickly. 

"Yes, I am sure."

Mulder cleared his throat. "I checked the train schedules. I can leave the evening of the twenty-ninth and, if I don't stop, still be in Massachusetts before the New Year. I wouldn't be in Boston proper, but I'd be across the Massachusetts state line." He jiggled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension. "So you hurry up with my boy, all right?"

"God and I are creating a life for you as quickly as we can, Mr. Mulder."

"You know that's not what I mean. It's... This husband of yours - the one who sleeps on the sofa and seems to have something on his mind besides you - he's not as big an ass as you think. He likes you. He worries about you."

"Yes, I know," she whispered back. "I worry about him too."

*~*~*~*

The Thanksgiving Day Fiasco began when Mulder caught Dana with the turkey.

No, the fiasco started six hours earlier when Mulder asked Poppy about breakfast and got handed some soda crackers, a jar of jam, and a spoon. Or twenty-two hours earlier when he quarreled with Byers, but the holiday catastrophe truly started with the turkey.

"Don't you dare!" Mulder ordered from the kitchen doorway. Dana leaned over her belly, preparing to lift the heavy roasting pan from the oven while Poppy chopped carrots and the cook rolled out piecrust. "Dana, get away from there."

Dana stopped. She turned her head toward him with her mouth open. "I am basting," she answered curtly.

"We have a half-dozen people who can baste," Mulder responded, not sure what basting involved. "Let Poppy. Poppy, see to the turkey. Dana, you come rest. Now."

Dana frowned, closed the oven door forcefully, and followed him to the dining room. The long table was heavy with silver and china.

"Please do not do that," Dana requested tersely, as soon as the kitchen door was closed. A maid arranged a floral centerpiece, but glanced at Dana and seemed to recall something she needed to do elsewhere. "If you want to order me around in private, it is your right, but please do not do it in front of Poppy."

"Poppy's used to us,” Mulder said and waved his hand dismissively. “She doesn't mind."

Dana’s brow wrinkled. "I did not say she minded. I said I minded. I think Poppy finds it entertaining. This is not a vast house, but I am still expected to run it. I do not berate you in front of your newsboys. Do not undermine my authority in front of the staff you expect me to manage.”

“Let Poppy manage the staff. She has for years.” 

Dana adjusted a place setting so all the forks lined up perfectly. She straightened up with her fists pressed to the small of her back as if massaging an ache. If Mulder asked, she'd tell him it didn't hurt.

Looking at her belly made his back hurt.

"Dana, you're tired.” He tried to sound sympathetic. “That is my son you’re carrying around. I pay Poppy; let Poppy take care of dinner. I instructed her to be kind to you, and to make sure you don't do too much. Let her."

"You instructed her?" she said slowly. Her cheeks got redder and her eyes bluer. "To be kind to me? You asked nicely the housekeeper be polite and heed to the lady of the house?"

"Yes. You do not need to be so snippy with me. All I had to do was tell her I needed her, and she's been wonderful. She's helped with Emily; she's kept Sam out of your hair. She'd run the house for you, if you'd let her, but of course you won't, Miss Difficult. Why did you think she's been spending the night? Did you think she liked sleeping down the hall from our bedroom?"

"How dense are you, Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked incredulously. "Did you see her expression this morning at finding you asleep beside me? Are you blind?"

"Apparently I am," he retorted. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She would have stomped off, but instead had to waddle away in a huff.

Women were meant to be loved, not understood, Mulder’s father had told him.

*~*~*~*

From there, the Thanksgiving Day disaster spread and worsened, like a typhoid epidemic passing from person to person.

For the first time in history, Samuel Mulder announced he wasn't hungry, an incorrect response as the cook carried out a twenty-pound turkey. Sam came to the table at his father's insistence, but looked like he'd rather be anyplace else.

In the dining room, Teena Mulder looked at Sam, at Mulder, and back at Sam again, seeming confused. She called Emily “Sam” - despite the lack of resemblance – and as of late, Sam was "Fox." She seemed confused at why two Foxes sat at the table.

Dana appeared in an empire-waist dinner dress: the fashion for pregnant women who couldn't fit into anything else. She took her place at one end of the table, managing a polite smile for everyone but Mulder. Mulder got an icy stare promising their discussion about Poppy wasn't over yet.

He wanted to tell Dana once again how much he cared for her. He wanted to put her and Harvey on a shelf, and stop time while he got the rest of his life in order. Love was infinite, but time and energy weren't. Since Dana was the one who could wait for his attention, she was the one who did.

Emily, sitting on Sam's lap, sneezed on the dish of green beans in front of her.

No one liked green beans anyway.

As Mulder took his seat at the head of the table, his stomach growling, the back door opened. Poppy ordered someone out of the kitchen. Judging by the angry voices, Alex asked to see Sadie, and Poppy wanted no part of that.

Dana started to get up to address the disruption, but Mulder stood and pointed sternly for her to sit back down. He would deal with Poppy.

Spender, drunk and unwanted and uninvited, stormed into the dining room. As Mulder stared at him in disbelief, Spender demanded to know what Mulder thought he was doing by taking 'his' senate seat. Mulder tried to reason, and asked him to leave. In the kitchen, on the other side of the door, Poppy and Alex continued to quarrel. 

Dana remained seated, but looked at Mulder with a sarcastic expression that said, “Handle this, oh great master of the house.”

Mulder was handling it, but Spender made a snide remark about Dana, and Mulder lost his temper. His fist met Spender’s jaw, sending Spender sprawling across the table. China, silver, linen, most of the food, and the floral centerpiece crashed to the floor.

Mulder thought, of all things, he should have planned better, like a lumberjack planning which way to fell a tree. If he'd hit Spender with his left fist, the china cabinet would have suffered, but the sweet potatoes might have been spared.

Teena began to cry. She asked Mulder repeatedly when his father was coming home. Mulder wanted to yell his father wasn't ever coming home - to let off steam before the boiler inside him exploded. Instead, he said Father was still at the office, and told Sam to take his grandmother upstairs and have her lie down.

Poppy stormed through, carrying Sadie, with Alex dogging her heels, still demanding to see his daughter. He grabbed the back of her dress in desperation. Poppy whirled, slapped him, and stalked off, taking Sadie with her. Alex was left standing alone, rubbing his cheek and looking embarrassed.

Grace waddled in and appraised the mess. He sniffed Spender, who lay unconscious across the dining room table, and started pulling pieces off the mangled turkey.

Dana handed Emily a roll. His wife sighed, propped her chin on her fist, and raised her eyebrows at Mulder. Despite the irritated expression on her face, she seemed amused.

"I know," Mulder responded. He flexed his throbbing hand, "Another holiday with the Mulders."

He had to struggle with Grace, but Mulder retrieved a drumstick perfectly edible except for dirt and dog spit.

*~*~*~*

And worse.

"Women," Alex commented. He flopped beside Mulder on the sofa in the library, looking tipsy.

"You do have to wonder sometimes," Mulder answered tiredly, putting down his book, "exactly what God was thinking."

The only thing salvaged from their feast was pie and wine. Mulder poured Alex a glass of wine and refilled his own. Mulder didn't like Alex, but he didn't dislike him, either. Alex had a pitiful quality about him, like a dog following anyone who promised him a bone. Also, like a dog that would bite the hand feeding him, given half a chance. Mulder didn't mind offering Alex a drink, but he didn't fill the goblet all the way to the top, either.

Everyone else had drifted upstairs - his mother resting, Dana with the children in the nursery, Sam hiding out, and Poppy avoiding Alex. China fragments scraped, and a broom whooshed in the next room as a maid raked Thanksgiving dinner off the floor. Spender lay sprawled across the table, so she cleaned around him.

"Mulder- Fox, I didn't mean to interrupt. Spender told me he was coming, so I had a few drinks and decided I'd tag along and try to talk to Poppy again. I didn't realize he wasn't invited to dinner. Or he'd cause such a scene. He had no business saying those things to your wife. Congratulations, by the way. I hadn't seen her recently, and Poppy hadn't mentioned it. I didn't know."

"We think it’s a bad bowl of clam chowder," Mulder said lightly. He rolled his neck and shoulders. "Speaking of which, did you get anything to eat?"

"The dog carried the turkey carcass past me. It looked delicious."

Alex said it in such a drunkenly earnest way Mulder tilted his head back and laughed. "Oh, God. Thank God this day is almost over. What else can possibly go wrong?"

Alex chuckled and chucked him on the shoulder as though they were best friends. He asked, "Clam chowder?"

"It's a long story."

Alex reached in his coat pocket, "Well, regardless, let's have a cigar in honor of your bowl of clam chowder."

"That's a wonderful idea," Mulder answered, noticing he started to slur his S's. Four glasses of wine seemed enough. He left the fifth sitting on the end table, untouched. "Outside, though. Poppy was after me for a week the last time I smoked in the house."

November days were cool in DC, but seldom frigid, so they sat on the back steps, looking out at the empty tree limbs and flowerbeds. A few roses still bloomed, looking strangely out of place against the dying world.

"Can I ask-" Mulder paused to savor the first lungful of smoke. "Oh, nice. Cuban?"

"Spanish Honduran."

"Can I ask about Poppy? Tell me if it's none of my business, but... You two are yelling at each other in my house, so I suppose it is my business."

Alex shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. As Poppy has made clear on several occasions, she no longer wants anything to do with me. I don't think we've quarreled, but it's hard to tell with her. She won't take money from me. She won't accept gifts. She won't let me see Sadie. What I want doesn't seem to make a difference." 

"Is there someone else?"

Alex turned his head, looking at Mulder. "I don't know. Is there?"

Mulder shrugged. He had no idea.

Alex smoked his cigar for a while, and consoled himself by deciding, "She'll come to her senses. I may or may not take her back when she does."

Mulder didn't comment. After a few minutes, heard himself ask, "What about Spender? What are you doing scurrying around with him these days?"

Alex didn't seem to mind the impertinent question. "I didn't get far in school. I don't have a trade except to be a soldier. There aren't a lot of jobs for one-armed ex-soldiers." He shrugged again, as though it excused selling bonds to nonexistent government railroads and levying taxes to build Negro schools never built. Alex would never be one of those men whose conscience kept him awake at night.

"I like you, Alex," Mulder fibbed. "Some friendly advice: be careful. If you lie down with dogs, you'll get up with fleas. You're young and you're bright, and you have a child to think about. One arm or two, you can do better than his kind."

Holding both in one hand, Alex alternated a sip of wine with a puff of his cigar. He leaned back against the banister, relaxing. Neither of them suggested checking on Spender or sending for a doctor; Spender would wake up and wander off eventually, and reappear the next time the rats came out of the woodwork.

"I saw the book you were reading in the library. I know the cover. Do you favor Walt Whitman?" Alex asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"Yes, I do," Mulder answered. "Dana got me his new book last Christmas, though I think my friend Byers helped her choose it. I doubt she knew I'd like it."

"Probably not. Do you know him?"

"Whitman? Yes, he's had dinner with us. It was less eventful."

Alex sat up straighter. "Did he stay the night? With you?"

"No, he has a flat close by." Mulder wondering at the odd question. "He invited me to visit him, though."

"Have you?"

"I haven't found the time. With Dana, and Sam home... I want to someday."

"I have. Visited him. It was nice," Alex said. "He writes about the war, doesn't he? About the bonds between men in battle?"

"That's right," Mulder said, surprised at Alex’s interest. "He's right. I've shared things with men during the war I couldn't explain to any woman. You live with your men, eat and sleep and try not to die with your men. It's a marriage of sorts. I care no less for my wife, but it's not something I could duplicate with her. Nothing I'd want to duplicate with her. Women are gentler," he added, though he doubted Dana’s gentle feelings toward at the moment.

"Loving men doesn't mean you love women any less."

Alex put his hand on Mulder's shoulder. Mulder looked at it curiously. He might be tipsy, but he thought they were discussing poetry, not having a heart-to-heart talk.

"No, it's merely different," Mulder answered, uncomfortable by the sudden closeness. Early in the war, he'd slept in tents so cramped all eight men had to turn over at the same time. Alex’s closeness felt different. "Men are different from women, of course."

"Your friend Byers - the one who also favors Whitman - is he your only friend? Or do you have others?"

"He's, he's - Byers is probably my closest friend. My oldest. We went to school together, roomed together. But, yes, of course I have other friends."

"Good," Alex whispered. He leaned forward and kissed Mulder softly on the lips.

For a second, Mulder was too shocked to do anything. Alex's mouth tasted of fine red wine and cigar smoke, and his skin was rough, stubbly against Mulder's instead of smooth like Dana's. Mulder couldn't have been more surprised if Alex had shot him. As Alex urged Mulder to open his mouth farther, Mulder strung two thoughts together and jerked back.

"What?" Mulder demanded. "Why did you- How dare you-"

"My mistake," Alex said. He got to his feet and backed away. "Too much wine."

"Damn right it's your mistake! You unnatural animal!"

Mulder’s face felt hot. His ears burned, and his mouth tasted like another man's tongue. He was as humiliated Alex had thought to kiss him as he was Alex had kissed him.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again." 

Mulder stood, knocking over a wineglass in his haste. "Get out of my house," he ordered. He stubbed out his cigar. "Off my property. Don't come back. Don't come near me. Don't come near Poppy or her daughter. Ever!"

"Please, you can't tell anyone," Alex pleaded, still sounding tipsy. "You can't tell Poppy."

"I have no intention of telling anyone. All I want is you out of my sight!” 

Alex retreated across the back yard, stumbling.

Mulder wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He jerked open the kitchen door to find Sam standing on the other side of it.

"Did you see what he did?" Mulder asked, still livid. "Alex?"

"No sir," Sam said politely. Samuel examined the floor, turned, and walked away.

*~*~*~*

Mulder put the letter in his desk drawer and locked it, and debated whether he should add wood to the library fireplace. He'd used all his energy for the day, so he decided to let it burn out for the night.

Spender had slithered off the dining room table and gone to wherever reptiles went at night. To Hell, hopefully.

The sun set. Mulder stopped to close the heavy drapes, and continued up the stairs. He felt oddly out of place, like the time he'd been sick as a child and slept for three days. He'd gone to sleep on Wednesday and woke on Friday, and had a difficult time adjusting to the idea he'd missed a Thursday. 

He would blame the sensation on the wine, but it took more than four glasses to make him so intoxicated. He didn't feel tipsy anymore, though; he felt odd. He blamed it on Alex - but Mulder wasn't confused about the kiss so much as he was offended, and even that feeling faded. What remained was an off-balance feeling, as though something was wrong and Mulder hadn't yet figured out what.

He stopped to stretch at the top of the stairs. As he lowered his arms, he saw his mother exit one of the bedrooms. She wore a different dress than earlier; she must have gotten into someone’s wardrobe. That had happened before. Mulder studied her, though, trying to imagine whose dress she wore.  
His mother was taller than Dana, but not as tall as Poppy or Melissa. The old-fashioned, high-waisted gown fit her perfectly, as if she’d stepped out of a ladies’ fashion magazine. A magazine from forty years ago.

"Mother, did you change clothes?" Mulder asked, going to her. "That's lovely, but where did you get it? Is it Melly’s mother’s dress? Have you been in the attic?"

Teena Mulder smiled. She walked past Mulder and down the hall without speaking or touching him. Rather than arguing, he watched her go. He looked to make sure the back of her dress was fastened and followed her. He should make sure she had eaten and drive her home. She was less confused at her own home. He wondered if Sam would like to spend the night with his grandmother. 

To his surprise, Mulder saw a young gentleman standing patiently at the top of the staircase. Not Spender. Not Sam or Alex. This man wore a well-cut but old-fashioned suit, and he seemed too bright for the dark hallway. He glowed. The closer Teena Mulder got to him, the more luminous she became.

Mulder recognized him. Bill Mulder, as a young man. Before he was Senator Mulder. Before he was Mulder’s father, even.

Mulder looked at his mother again, but she no longer looked like his mother. Her silver hair was chestnut, and the lines gone from her face. She seemed impossibly young. A teenager.

His father took off his top hat. He transferred his hat and walking stick to one hand and offered his arm to his young wife. Bill Mulder said something to Mulder’s mother. They paused to smile fondly at Mulder - his father raised his hand in greeting – and turned and made their way down the steps, disappearing around the bend of the staircase.

"Mother?" Mulder said uncertainly, following them. "Father?"

They’d vanished. The grand staircase was empty, and the mahogany banister gleamed in the low light. Mulder smelled his mother's perfume and the sweet cherry tobacco from his father's pipe. It lingered in the air. He stayed still, not wanting to lose it.

"Fox," Poppy called from behind him. Her voice sounded voice hoarse and uncertain. "I was checking on your mother and she..." 

Mulder stood on the steps, watching the placed he’d last seen them. He could still smell the tobacco smoke, and still heard the faint rustle of unseen fabric. He even heard them talking: a familiar man and a woman’s voice engaged in pleasant, indistinct conversation, like they chatted at a party in the next room.

"Fox, honey, come and sit down," Poppy’s voice said from the landing.

Mulder turned to look at her. The odd feeling began to fade, and a hollow ache set in. The voices stopped. The footsteps and rustling fabric stopped. The scent of tobacco and perfume faded away.

“She’s gone, Fox,” Poppy told him needlessly.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus IX


	3. Chapter 3

Begin: Paracelsus X

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa,

After fourteen years as your husband and a lifetime as your friend, I will tell you my deepest secret - and it isn't the stack of photographs and books hidden in my desk at work. Those are Mr. Frohike's.

My secret is this: I am not all-knowing. I do not have all the answers. I stumble. I hesitate. I make mistakes. I regret. I am even afraid: a shocking admission from your fearless husband. Your Fox, who can do anything, fix anything - herald of the truth, champion of the weak, and slayer of bugger-bears, kitchen mice, and Confederate rebels - is afraid. 

I sit alone in my library in the middle of the night. I prop my feet on the Christmas gifts hidden under my desk, and write to a woman who cannot answer me and would not understand if she could. While everyone else sleeps, I shrug on my coat and go outside, staring up at the immense sky like there are answers in the stars. I see none, only strange shadows on the horizon.

Sometimes I envy Moses his burning bush, Noah his white dove. I even envy Abraham the voice of God commanding him to sacrifice his son. To have a clear-cut answer, to know what Destiny intends and to act on faith... I do have faith, Melly. I make light of religion, but I have faith in God. We've had several good conversations, God and I, though there are also times we aren’t on speaking terms.

Tonight would appear to be one of those times.

Yes, I am rambling. Yes, I have had too much to drink. I think it shows great restraint I have not had the whole bottle, but only because I spilled it and cannot find a corkscrew to open another.

Is there a single right course, Melly? I have not found it, or if I have, I am hopelessly off-course. I wandered out of the universe where I belonged and into another universe's Hell. It is like a test where there is no right choice, where the facts and the truth are distant relations.

I am careful to whom I quote Whitman these days, so I'll rely on The Bard, on what Father would say when I'd falter. "What is your substance, whereof are you made, son?" Father would say to look inside myself, to find my center and let it be my guide. I know where my center is, Melly. I know who grounds me to this world and who makes my life bearable after so much loss. I have found her. She's upstairs, asleep in our bed, with our child inside her.

And that is the problem.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

The thunderclouds spent hours drifting toward DC, and seemed content to linger once they arrived. The cold rain drummed on the church roof during the funeral, on the long line of horses and buggies on the way to the cemetery, and on the little tent as the minister laid Teena Mulder’s body to rest.

Beneath black umbrellas held by Colored maids, his mother’s genteel friends sobbed and hung on each other’s shoulders. Mulder shook hands and accepted condolences, but inwardly wondered how water remained for tears as so much fell from the sky.

Because of Dana’s “condition,” as ladies delicately put it, she didn’t attend the funeral or burial, but she was waiting when Mulder returned home from the cemetery. Poppy and the rest of the staff remained at his mother's house, and Emily should be down for an afternoon nap. Only Dana greeted Mulder in the big, empty foyer. Even Grace hid out somewhere.

Mulder hung his black topcoat coat on the rack and tossed his black hat on top. He ignored the water dripping off and collecting in a half-moon on the floor. He'd had an umbrella, but Sam forgot his, so Sam now had an umbrella. With no protection, the rain had seeped into Mulder's boots, down his collar, and under his cuffs, making him feel like a cold, damp sheep. A funeral in the winter rain was miserable, but at least it hadn’t been a funeral on a perversely beautiful summer afternoon with birds singing and flowers blooming. Rain seemed sad, at least. If Mulder could bury Melly in the sunshine, he could bury his mother in a deluge.

Seeing Dana’s dull mourning dress, he commented tiredly, "I guess we're back to black." Mulder tried to remember the number of times he'd seen Dana dressed up in color and out of maternity. How many times she’d put on a fancy satin gown that nipped her waist to nothing and danced with him until their feet ached. Put pearls in her hair and perfume between her breasts. Drank too much champagne and giggled until the wee hours. Made every man in the room envy Mulder.

Never.

Mulder let his suit coat fall from his shoulders. He draped the coat over the banister, but it slipped and crumpled to the floor. He didn’t bother picking it up. Dana bent to retrieve it and Mulder told her not to as he trudged up the stairs. 

It sounded like Dana picked up the wet suit coat anyway.

Mulder stopped trudging when he realized he’d left Dana behind. Dutifully, he went back and offered his arm to steady her as they climbed the steep, curving staircase. 

Dana stopped on the landing to catch her breath. “How is Samuel?”

"Upset. He left the service early, but I don’t think he want far. After the burial, he asked to spend the night with a friend from the Smithsonian Museum instead of coming back here. Mother was thirty-three when Sam was born; she raised him more as a son than a grandson. It's as if he's lost his mother again. It isn’t fair for one boy to lose so much. His grandparents, his mother, his sister-"

"Your parents, your wife, your daughter," Dana interrupted quietly. "How are you, Mr. Mulder?" she asked as they reached their bedroom. It was mid-afternoon - an odd time to go to bed - but he couldn't think of anywhere else to go. "I do not want to hear you say 'fine.'"

"I'm..." He paused, trying to find the right words. "I'm better than I should be. My father would say I'm being strong for Sam, being a man, but I don't feel- It's like the morning after I graduated from Harvard. I got up, dressed, looked around, and realized one chapter of my life was over. I didn’t feel good or bad as much as empty. My mother is dead. I know I should feel more, but I don't. If anything, I feel frightened I don't feel more. Do you understand?" 

"Yes. I have been better than I should be." Dana helped him unbutton his damp shirt. She stopped to examine the black armband on his sleeve. "This is pinned. Why is it pinned on instead of sewn? It will stick you."

"Everyone was busy. Poppy's upset. I didn't want to bother you." He unbuttoned his cuffs and collar, stripped off the shirt, and started unbuttoning his trousers.

"Where is your undershirt?” Dana wanted to know. “You are soaked to the skin. Why have you been standing in the cold rain without an undershirt?"

Because he didn't have a clean one. Poppy was incoherent with grief, though Teena Mulder hadn’t been fond of Poppy. Their cook and maids were loaned to his mother's house in Georgetown to prepare for the well-heeled masses who attended the funeral. Guests expected to be fed and, if they traveled, offered a place to stay. Because unless Dana cooked, cleaned, sewn, or laundered anything in the last three days, it hadn't been cooked, cleaned, sewn, or laundered.

"I forgot," Mulder lied with his teeth chattering. Gooseflesh covered his chest, making the coarse hair stiffen and his nipples harden.

"You are shivering. Off with those wet clothes and under the covers."

"But Mrs. Mulder, we just met,” he responded, trying to muster the energy to sound sarcastic. 

She smiled dutifully as he stripped off his trousers and drawers.

Mulder told his brain to smile back, but the message never reached his face. 

"Stay with me?" he asked wearily, and sat on the edge of the bed. He felt like Atlas holding the world on his shoulders.

Dana nodded. She brushed her lips over the raised scar across his chest and laid her head against his shoulder. Mulder put his arms around her and exhaled for the first time in days. Her lashes brushed his skin as she opened her eyes, but she didn't pull away.

Button by button, Mulder unfastened the back of her dress. He gathered the black fabric up, and her chemise, and pulled them over her head. Stores sold maternity corsets, but she didn’t wear one, to the doctor's dismay. Managing her high-buttoned shoes, stockings, and garters must have been too difficult without a maid. Dana wore slippers. She stepped out of them as he untied the waist of her petticoat and pantalets. The last of her clothing fell to the floor.

Dana blushed. Mulder last saw her nude the night he brought Samuel home from Pennsylvania. There had been some expansions. She wrapped one arm across her breasts and the other beneath her belly, and looked away.

He meant to assure her she was beautiful, and should not be embarrassed. Again, his mouth failed to move.

Mulder slid under the covers, and held the blankets up for Dana. She moved slowly onto the bed. Dana paused to unpin her braid. Instead of rolling away so he could curl up to her like he did as they slept, she faced him. Dana stroked her fingertips over his cheekbones and looked at him sadly.

"I wish I could make this better for you, mo rún," she said. 

Silently, slowly, he moved his mouth to hers, blending their lips and tongues. She was quicksand, pulling him farther and farther from the surface and into dangerous depths lacking adjectives and nouns: no sad eyes, no polite words, and no sympathetic expressions. No quiet sobs hidden behind black-bordered handkerchiefs. No formal processions, no wills, no estates, no condolences. Only verbs: love, lick, thrust, suck. Moan, murmur, embrace, surrender. Kiss, fuck, worship, be.

He kissed the bridge of her nose, the delicate velvet of her earlobes, her bottom lip. He kissed her eyelids, and the secret underside of her throat. The ridges of her throat convulsed as she swallowed. His kissed the ticklish white skin of her upper arm, the fragile dip in her collarbone, and the textured palm of her hand. Dana’s hand curled against his cheek. Her fingertips trailed down the coarse shadow of stubble.

He kissed her breasts, which were swollen and sensitive to the slightest touch. She had no milk yet, so he sucked greedily. Dana ran her fingers over his scalp and gripped his hair, holding him close. He kissed the arc of her belly and the backs of her knees, where creases and pale blue veins crossed like rivers and valleys on a map. He kissed the insides of her thighs. Her toes curled and her feet shifted against the sheets. 

Mulder felt warm again. He licked his lips. Instead of asking properly, he managed, “The baby?”

“It is fine, I think,” she whispered back. 

She moved slowly but, to Mulder, time crawled even slower. Dana knelt, facing away from him. She arranged a few pillows in front of her. Her braid hung down her back. Dana began to lower herself, but Mulder stopped her. He pulled the little tie from the end of her braid and combed out her hair with his fingers. Auburn curls spread across her skin like a scarlet curtain.

Mulder put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her to lean forward and down.

He made a low, primitive sound in the back of his throat - a blend of a growl and a sigh - universal to all males in any age or language. As if in a trance, he watched his hands move down her spine, over her bottom, and down the back of her thighs. 

He heard Dana gasp as he entered her. Her back arched, and her legs shifted farther apart. A thin sheen of perspiration formed on her skin. Inside her felt so warm. Quicksand, he thought again, watching his body disappear into hers. Dana rested her forehead on her forearm, but her other hand gripped the bed sheet tightly.

Mulder tried formulate the question appropriate at the moment, but realized he wasted breath to ask. Dana would not tell him if he hurt her, and she would not let him hurt the baby.

She was the thin veneer of ice across the surface of a bottomless lake. So deceptively calm and safe, and yet so dangerous beneath the surface.

Mulder put his hand on the small of her back, tracing an imaginary circle. If he could have managed words, he would have told her how much he loved her. 

He moved his hips back and forward again. Dana’s head nodded, as if she understood.

Mulder leaned down so he covered her, wanting as much contact with her skin as possible. He paused to push her hair off her sweaty neck and whispered in her ear, "Will you make me oatmeal? Later?"

He hadn’t thought to eat at his mother's house. He felt empty. Dana filled most of the hollowness inside him, and oatmeal would fill the rest. 

As he thrust slowly into her, between quick breaths, Dana managed, “Yes, if you are hungry, Mr. Mulder, I will fix you oatmeal. Later."

"Thank you," he said in advance. Nothing was more precious to a man than a woman loving him when he needed her to, as he needed her to. "With butter and brown sugar?"

His mother had made his oatmeal with butter and brown sugar.

He paused to let her answer.

"Yes, with butter and brown sugar," she assured him.

*~*~*~*

Most of the wounded had a better chance at survival if they'd been left where they fell on the battlefield. Many who lived long enough to see a doctor died during surgery - the inevitable amputation - or afterward of infection, measles, mumps, or whooping cough. 

Even in Mulder’s dream, the hospital buzzed with flies and smelled like spoiled ham and human waste. The combination would have turned Mulder's stomach on a good day. As it was, eating required sitting up and moving his arms, which required disturbing the silk stitches holding the skin of his chest together, which hurt like hell and seemed too much of an effort.

Mulder and three other officers shared a room, though he hadn't seen two men move in some time. The fourth had been a quiet, lanky man recovering from a head wound. The man must have tried to shield his face with his hand, because he lacked several fingers in addition to an eye. He'd passed his days staring out the window. This morning the officer stood, put on his hat, and told Mulder he'd had enough; to Hell with the war, he was going home. The man had a sweetheart back home, and he’d given as much of his body and sanity to his country as he planned to give.

Mulder had looked at him, knowing he should say something about desertion or duty, but not able to rally the energy. If Mulder could have found the energy, he might have accompanied the deserter.

That left Mulder and two men who either were or would soon be corpses. His bed was near the door, letting him observe the mayhem of the main ward. There must have been another battle, because the litter-bearers circled, removing the dead and clearing the beds. A squat Negro man made the rounds with the water-bucket and dipper, offering a drink to anyone conscious. The doctor made his way through the big room. About every fifth bed, the doctor signaled the litter-bearers, and they collected another body for burial. 

Mulder waited for Death to realize the mistake and return for him, but Death had not. Days, then weeks passed, and Mulder lingered.

He stayed still as the doctor checked under the cotton bandages covering his torso from armpits to navel. The bayonet “got him good,” as Frohike would have put it, leaving a long, bloody gash like a ceremonial sash.

"What about your roommates?" The doctor gestured to the other beds.

"I think they're gone: those two." Mulder pointed while trying not to move his arm. "The one with the head wound, he went for a walk."

A long walk. Home.

The doctor checked the two remaining officer. He signaled the litter-bearers and pulled sheets over both bodies.

"You need anything, son?"

Mulder considered it. He'd dictated a telegram to his father, letting him gently break the news of the injury to Melly and Mother. "Do you have a newspaper?" he asked, wondering about the world outside.

"No, son,” the doctor responded. “No newspaper."

Mulder turned his head to look out the dirty window at the trees. It was almost December - it could be December, he wasn't sure - but the hospital was in Louisville, and some of the trees still had leaves. He lacked any memory of the train transporting the wounded from the battlefield in Tennessee to the hospital in Kentucky. Mulder remembered the battle, looking down, seeing blood, and realizing he was badly injured. He’d watched Sarah coming toward him through the tall grass. He closed his eyes. 

He opened them again, and lay in this hospital room.

"Do you have an apple?" Mulder asked. Not a baked or stewed or fried or dried or otherwise adulterated apple, but a fresh, red apple that crunched as he bit into it and dripped juice down his beard. He could put an apple on the table beside his bed for a while and admire it before he ate it.

"No apples," the doctor answered indulgently, and moved on.

Bored, restless, but unwilling to risk the pain of moving, Mulder alternated between looking out the window and staring at the ceiling, imagining he could see different things in the water stains. 

Silence fell over the main ward. The wounded men settled down like lions spotting their prey. Mulder looked, curious. At first, he thought he saw Sarah again, which would mean he was dead after all. 

Mulder blinked and realized Poppy made her way through the beds, accompanied by his mother. The wounded men cleared a path for Teena Mulder as best they could, but eyed both women hungrily. Most men hadn't seen a female in months, except for the nuns in the hospital and the whores who followed the army.

Mulder saw his mother pause. She composed herself and continued, trying to keep her skirts clear of the filth on the floor. Poppy followed. Poppy carried a valise and tried to keep clear of the hands of the more mobile soldiers.

Teena Mulder seemed surprised Mulder didn't get up to greet her. For the first time since he was five, Mulder hasn’t stood as a lady entered the room. Mulder gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bed. Poppy hurried to help him sit up, guiding his hand to the bedpost. The room spun, Mulder’s stomach pitched, and the light through the window darkened. Once he could focus again, his mother sat on a chair beside his bed and Poppy stood, keeping him from falling forward or back. 

Mulder nodded he was all right. Poppy stepped away but watched him warily.

"Mother, what are you doing here?" he asked, trying not to take a deep breath. "Where's Father?" 

"He is in Georgetown with Samuel. He said you were wounded, but he couldn't get away." His mother looked around nervously. "I was worried." Her gaze stopped on the two corpses across the room. The stretcher-bearers hadn't arrived to remove them.

"I'm fine. It's a scratch. Mother, you can't be here." 

"Why can't I?" she asked, showing a defiant streak he'd never dreamed existed. Of course, he'd never dreamed she'd get on a train and travel hundreds of miles with no escort except a female servant. "I'm your mother. Why can't I be here?"

"You can't." He took too deep a breath and winced. "There's a war. You have to go home."

"Not in Kentucky," she insisted. "Kentucky is neutral."

Mulder doubted his mother could find Kentucky on a map. “Go home. Or, at least, go to a hotel.”

"Fox, Melissa's downstairs. She's in the lobby."

He looked up, his mouth open. "Melly's-" 

"She's scared to death. She begged to come, but I didn't know it would be like this. I thought... What should I tell her? I can't bring her up here. She'll panic."

He took a shallower, safer breath. "Tell her Poppy's helping me dress and I'll come down. Go on, Mother."

"All right," she agreed. His mother stood, looking like a single elegant rose amid a muddy, trampled cornfield. "Poppy has clean clothes, soap, your shaving kit. I'll find someone to bring up hot water and towels."

Mulder nodded, though wondered whom she thought would bring hot water and towels - the cockroaches, the rats, or the corpses.

She put her palm on his bearded cheek and cupped his face. "My precious son."

"Mother, I'm fine,” he promised. “Wait with Melly. Keep an eye on her."

"You don't want me to see, do you?"

He shook his head. She kissed his forehead - the one clean place on his body - and left.

As soon as they were alone, Poppy regarded him skeptically and asked, "How in the world you think you gonna stand up, let alone get downstairs?” 

"Are you saying I don’t look my best?" Mulder mumbled, exhausted.

She helped him move from the bed to the chair. As she unwrapped the bandages, Poppy clucked disapprovingly. "This is bad, Fox."

"Do what you can," he requested. “Long enough to fool Melly.”

Whatever plantation Voodoo medicine Poppy unleashed on him, fifteen minutes, some soap and water, a quick trim of his beard and hair, a clean shirt, a great deal of cursing, and two morphine tablets later, he leaned on Poppy and made his way across the lobby on opiates and willpower.

Melly stood near a window, watching the maimed soldiers around her. The men kept an eye on her as well. Melissa looked even more out of place than his mother. At least Mulder’s mother managed a brave façade. Melly’s pretty face paled as a man missing both legs rolled past in a wheelchair.

"I'm right here, honey. All in one piece," Mulder said.

She turned and gasped in surprise. "Oh my God. Oh my God," she repeated. She touched his face, his shoulders, and his hands as if uncertain he was real. He'd forgotten how her touch felt: feather-light, like a butterfly's wings. "You're all right? Fox?"

Poppy helped Mulder maneuver so he leaned casually against the wall. He propped himself up on the window ledge. "I'm fine. It's barely a scratch."

He unfastened two buttons and pulled his shirt collar aside to show her the top of the scar. About two inches of the wound had healed and was visible above the fresh bandages; he didn't mention the unhealed gash continued eighteen inches down his chest.

To his surprise, Melissa kissed him on the lips. She stepped back like she might have done something wrong. "Can you come home? Do you have to stay here? This place smells bad, and you're- you're too thin. I want you to come home and get better."

"I will," he promised. "Soon. In a week or two. Once the doctor says it's all right. I'll be home by Christmas."

Unlike Dana, Melissa didn't think deductively. If Mulder could walk around the hospital and his wound was the scratch he showed her, he should be well enough to board a train and go home. He saw Poppy gesture for him to button his uniform coat; blood began to seep through the new bandages and stain his shirt.

Mulder buttoned, but in his opium-filled world, everything seemed lovely. He realized he heard the color blue; it droned like a hummingbird's wings. He couldn't feel his toes, but his lips tingled pleasantly. He wished Melly would kiss him again. Across the room, another officer raised his hand in recognition; his arm continued upward for yards, stretching out like wool being spun into yarn. The man’s infinite arm seemed unusual, but not noteworthy. The fairies flitting around his mother's head like little balls of dancing light, those were bizarre.

"I was so afraid,” a woman told him. “I was so afraid something bad had happened."

Oh yes; Mulder’s lovely, adoring wife. She spoke, and he should answer. Mulder took her hand and smiled at her. "No, nothing bad is going to happen. Try not to worry. The war will be over soon and I'll be home for good. I promise."

Melly looked at him. Her trusting eyes were bottomless. Her eyes were so dark they seemed black. He saw his own distorted image reflected in them. "But I'll be dead, Fox," she answered sadly, as if disappointed.

Mulder blinked. This wasn't how the dream went. That wasn't how it happened.

"You're going to make me pregnant and I'm going to kill myself and the baby," she said in the same childishly sad voice. "You said you loved me. Why did you do make me do that if you loved me?"

"I, I-" he sputtered, trying to get his brain to function. 

That wasn't how it happened at all, but the morphine made everything seem warped and slow. Mulder knew the word “pregnant” would never leave his mouth in mixed company, let alone a lady's. This dream couldn't be right.

The others - Poppy, his mother, the wounded soldiers - slipped into the murky background. Melissa stood in front of him, looking every bit as beautiful as always.

"Melly, you said you wanted to,” he reminded her. “You said you wanted a baby. I didn't hurt you, and I didn't do anything wrong. You're- You were my wife. I loved you, and you said you wanted to. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"What else could I say? I didn't want to. I never, ever wanted to. Neither does Dana."

"Yes, she does,” Mulder protested. “How do you know about Dana?"

Melissa was a pie made entirely of meringue: soft and sweet and pleasing and nothing else. She would never accuse him of any wrongdoing, even in a dream. If it rained when he planned to go hunting, she apologized for the rain. If he was in a foul mood, she apologized for annoying him, whether she had or not. If Mulder had ever struck her, she probably would have apologized for being in the way of his fist.

"She's smart, like Sarah,” Melissa said knowingly. “Dana knows why you married her. She’s better at pretending than I am."

"She loves me. She wants me. She's not pretending."

Melly toyed with his hand. She turned it over and stroked the palm like a gypsy reading the lines. She looked up at him with those infinitely deep, dark eyes. "How would you know if she was?"

*~*~*~*

Mulder woke alone in the big bed, curled into a ball on the center of the mattress with his arms clutching his chest. Dana was gone. The blankets lay on the floor, but the smell of their bodies together lingered on the rumpled sheets.

That wasn't how it happened. Mulder remembered Melly asking if he could go for a walk. His mother, thinking quickly, said Mulder wasn’t allowed outside the hospital. After a few minutes of chitchat, they agreed the ladies would return to DC to get ready for his convalescence, and Poppy would stay in Louisville and accompany Mulder home when the doctor agreed he could travel - which hadn't been for another week. The second Melly and Teena Mulder’s cab left the hospital, Mulder collapsed and had to be carried back to bed.

Mulder scrambled up, pulled on his damp trousers, and jogged down the steps two at a time. He found Dana standing at the kitchen stove, and demanded breathlessly, "Do you love me?" 

Emily sat on the kitchen floor, playing with mixing bowls. Grace slept close by. 

"Do you?" Mulder ran his fingers through his wild hair. "Why did you marry me?"

"What is-"

"No,” he cautioned her. “Don't ask me what is wrong and don't soothe me. Do you love me?"

Dana put a lid on the pot of oatmeal and moved it off the stove. "Of course I love you. Did you have a bad dream, Mr. Mulder?" 

"Don't answer out of duty. Don't say you do because you're my wife or because you know I love you. Do you love me?"

"Yes, I love you. Put on a shirt before you catch a chill." 

"Are you telling the truth?” he wanted to know. “Or are you saying that because it's what you're supposed to say? If you didn't love me and I'd told you I did love you, would you answer you did or you didn't love me? You'd say you did, wouldn't you?"

Dana asked Mulder to repeat the question.

"If you didn't love me, and I wanted you to love me, and I loved you, and I was happy, would you tell me if you didn't love me and you weren't happy?"

Dana hesitated. "If I did not-"

"I knew it,” he said triumphantly. He threw up his hands. “You would not tell me."

She pressed her palms against the small of her back and answered like he began to try her patience, "If I say I love you, you say I am lying. If I would say I did not love you... Mr. Mulder, I do not think there is a right answer."

He stepped closer to her. "Do you love me?" he demanded again.

"Yes."

"See, I knew you would say that. You are my wife, you carry my child. Regardless of the truth, you would say you do love me."

She tilted her head to the left. "Am I supposed to say no, I do not love you?"

His empty stomach flip-flopped. "You don't love me?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Mr. Mulder-"

"For God's sake, what?" He huffed and put his hands on his hips. "You are being difficult. Dif-fi-cult," he repeated, enunciating each syllable. Difficult: an adjective. Hard to deal with. "Why did you marry me?"

Her eyebrows rose half an inch. "You asked me?" she guessed.

"Of course, I asked you! I loved you! Did you expect me to leave you in a swamp mourning that faithless son-of-a-bitch?"

Mulder closed his mouth and looked around, wondering who'd spoken in his voice. 

"Why did that happen, then? Upstairs. Why did you say yes? My God, Dana, in a year and a half, I don't think you've ever said no. You're eight months gone and you still don't say no. Is it out of some misguided sense of duty? Because you think it's part of your job as my wife? Keep my house, bear my children, warm my bed? Is that all you think I want?"

"I am your wife. And I do not think you have any idea what you want, Mr. Mulder."

He turned and stalked off angrily. He reached the front hall before she called after him, "I cannot chase you, Mulder. You will have to stop if you want me to catch you."

Mulder stopped and put his hands on his hips again. Dana’s skirt swished slowly against the floor as she approached. He faced the front door. She walked around him and turned so they faced each other. 

"I married you because I thought you were a good man,” she assured him. “I wanted to go with you, wherever you were going."

He chewed the inside of his lower lip. "Well, we've arrived. Do you still want to be here?"

"Yes. I do."

He nodded thoughtfully, as though considering on several philosophical levels. 

"Is there butter for the oatmeal?” he asked curtly. “There's usually brown sugar somewhere, but no one's been to the market. We might not have butter." 

"Yes, I think there is butter."

"All right," he answered, and followed her back to the kitchen.

*~*~*~*

When Mulder graduated from Harvard, his father asked him what he wanted to do: run for office, become an ambassador. Some profession involving starched shirts, firm handshakes, and having an ancestor's signature on The Declaration of Independence. Mulder answered. His father chuckled but asked, "No, son, truly - what do you want to do?"

Over the years, Mulder became a stockholder in several large newspapers and publishing houses, but The Evening Star was the first. For the others, Mulder traveled to New York and Boston every few months, sat in board meetings, voted occasionally, and made a nice quarterly profit. At home, Mulder preferred a more hands-on approach to his original “ungentlemanly, unwise endeavor.” The paper was his. Earned, not inherited; built, not bought.

The Washington Evening Star had grown into the largest building on the part of Pennsylvania Avenue known as Newspaper Row. The lobby faced the broad street, with Mulder's and the other offices off each side and the loading docks to the rear. Frohike's typesetters and presses occupied the second floor, the reporters the third, and the Associated Press rented the fourth.

Given so much square footage, he and Byers could avoid each other for days. Or, at least, until late morning, when Byers appeared in Mulder's doorway, studying his clasped hands.

"We didn't expect you back so soon," Byers said neutrally. "I thought you'd take a few more days. It must be such a shock. Mulder, I had no idea your mother was so ill."

"She wasn't. It was sudden. Another stroke, the doctor thinks." 

Mulder straightened a stack of papers, set them aside, and folded his hands on the top his desk. Byers and Susanne attended the funeral, so they'd offered the scripted condolences yesterday.

"Still, I'm sorry. I feel bad for losing my temper."

John Byers would define showing the slightest annoyance as losing his temper. If Mulder lost his temper, walls, crockery, and the neighbors suffered. 

"I feel bad for taking advantage of our friendship. I should never have asked you to read those letters. Or, at least, I should have told you what you were reading."

"So we agree we feel bad," Byers responded. "She's your wife. I won't interfere again."

Mulder raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware you had interfered." 

Byers tilted his chin up angrily and turned to leave.

"Byers- John, I'm sorry,” Mulder amended. “Close the door and sit down. Please."

The door closed. Feet shuffled, throats cleared. Mulder walked around his desk to sit in one of the two armchairs in front of it.

"I didn't mean to accuse you of anything unseemly. It was the farthest thing from my mind."

Not the farthest. If Dana joked about mistaking Mulder for Frohike crawling into bed with her, Mulder laughed at the ridiculousness. He wouldn't have laughed had she said “Mr. Byers.”

"I'm trying to help by reading those letters. Dana's so- So contained. She never lets her guard down. She says she loves me, but I don't think she trusts me. Not really. I thought-" 

"Why wouldn't she trust you, Mulder?"

Mulder furrowed his forehead, wondering if that was sarcasm, but Byers blinked innocently.

"I thought she might talk to her mother," Mulder said, as though that had anything to do with reading mail he'd promised to deliver to Dana - and still hadn't delivered.

"If you think I'm too friendly with your wife, it's your place to say something. Which you did," Byers responded. "As I said, I won't interfere again."

There was a long, mutually disapproving silence. 

Dana had few friends. When she could go out, she went to the market with some women from her church. During Dana’s confinement, her priest visited each week. Dana didn’t have tea with their neighbors, nor sit on the board of a charity to feed orphans or beautify cemeteries. She didn’t have old chums from boarding school or fellow debutantes. The local blue-blooded matrons called when Mulder and Dana first married, satisfied their curiosity, and never returned. 

Even if Dana had been accepted by polite society, she had no interest in spending her afternoons gossiping about who'd been seen with whom and - more importantly - what they wore. She did not dissect fashion magazines or linger at the dressmaker’s shop. Dana liked science and literature and world events, topics seldom brought up at ladies' teas. Mulder told himself he would find time to spend with her, as though he expected to stumble over a few extra minutes at the end of the day. Time was made, not found, so the minutes were never there.

It seemed reasonable for Dana to want to talk with someone who shared her interests and spoke her language - and happened to be a happily married man. It didn't happen to be the happily married man married to Dana.

"Am I being a jealous ass?" Mulder asked uncertainly.

Byers nodded affirmatively. 

"I worried that might be the case." Mulder sighed, pushed a stack of ledgers aside and propped his boots up on the front of his desk. "I suppose, though, if I want anything else translated from Gaelic, I should ask someone else?"

"I think that would be wise."

Mulder reached forward again to retrieve his coffee cup. "Why didn't you tell me I was being an ass? Isn't that part of your job?"

"It's like trying to tell you anything; it doesn't do any good. We have to wait until you realize it, and then we all act surprised."

Mulder "uh-hummed" noncommittally. "That's not true, is it?"

"Oh no, of course not," Byers answered earnestly.

*~*~*~*

As of late, Mulder found sardonic amusement in watching Samuel frustrate the teenage belles as much as he frustrated Mulder. 

Young men customarily called on eligible girls, but Samuel didn't call. Or write. Or send flowers or gifts. In fact, Sam declined invitations to birthday parties and fall picnics to practice his cello or visit his grandmother. The Mulders got formal invitations to society functions - charity galas, balls - but Dana couldn't go out, and Mulder cared about as little for society functions as Sam did. At the symphony, Sam sat among the musicians. At church, he had been his grandmother’s escort. Nice girls had little opportunity to catch Samuel’s eye, let alone launch a full-on, wide-eyed, flirtatious assault. Girls did try, though, conspiring with their mothers and waging campaigns that would have made General Sherman proud. Thanks to the war, there were five girls Sam's age for every one boy. A wealthy, handsome, well-mannered teenage boy attracted girls like the sugar bowl attracted ants.

After Teena Mulder's death, the Mulders got condolence calls from mothers dabbing their eyes while their daughter looked prettily sympathetic. Sam visited the cemetery often and alone and, in the first days after her death, left the room with his head down at the mention of his grandmother. Dana – hugely pregnant and who those same mothers discussed cattily amongst each other - ended up handling those condolence visits while Mulder and Sam hid upstairs or in the kitchen.

Receptions at the Smithsonian became well-attended by sixteen and seventeen-year-old females. Girls happened to bump into Sam as he and Mulder left The Evening Star. In nice weather, the pack of chaperoned females on the sidewalk grew to the point Mulder threatened to offer them work selling papers. Young female neighbors came personally to the house to borrow a pound of flour or - in the case of one ingenious girl - a violin string. Sam took a string off his own instrument, walked the girl six blocks back to her house, and installed the string on her father's violin. For weeks, a rash of stringed instrument malfunctions plagued DC. 

Samuel didn’t mind female company, or company in general, so long as it was quiet. He followed Dana or Poppy or Rebekah - his grandmother's housekeeper - around, seeming lonely. Mulder had a few scruffy girls working as newsboys. Far more girls milled around Newspaper Row as prostitutes. Sam knew them by name, spoke to them, and treated them with the same politeness as he treated Dana. He noticed a young prostitute vanished and asked his father to speak to the police. Mulder had. He told Sam she worked in a brothel at the edge of town rather than the truth: the police neither knew nor cared to investigate whatever happened to the girl. 

Sam was as friendly with a dour girl four houses down the street as he was with anyone. One of his friends from the symphony had a granddaughter who sang opera. Sam had asked them to tea. Mulder secretly thumbed through Sam's sketchpad, and the boy's drawings reflected a fine and thorough appreciation of the female form. 

The girls bold enough to outright pursue Sam were also the dramatic, belle-of-the-ball girls who twittered noisily and nervously as they flirted. If they cornered him, Sam looked uncomfortable. The girls tried to make conversation but, knowing nothing about Samuel’s interests, inevitably asked about the war. Unfortunately for Washington’s female elite, Samuel would not discuss the war. He'd politely excuse himself and leave, even if the girl and her hopeful mother sat in the parlor. 

If the attention troubled Sam, Mulder would have put a stop to it, but Sam seemed oblivious to society's efforts at matchmaking. At some point, Mulder supposed, Sam would discover a pretty, quiet girl sitting on his sheet music, near his sketchpad - in the right light - and appreciate her.

A few days after the funeral, Mulder walked past the library to discover Sam had.

Mulder had taken note the pretty little maid - he didn't know her name - primarily because she reminded him of Dana, except at sixteen and with chestnut-colored hair. Poppy and Dana managed the house servants, so he'd had no dealings with the girl except knowing she was in his employment. 

Sam posed the maid, in her white apron and black uniform, in front of a window in the library so the red and orange sunset backlit her hair and made it glisten. A rag and a bottle of furniture polish waited on Mulder's desk: reminders of her assigned task. She didn't seem bothered by Sam's request to model. In fact, she seemed flattered. Mulder watched as Sam had the maid tilt her head and turn sideways. His son would step back and prepare to draw, but she’d speak or move. Sam would patiently arrange her again. After a few tries, the girl started to blush and giggle, and Mulder saw Sam smile for the first time since before Thanksgiving.

Mulder leaned against the side of the doorway, curious. Sam shouldn't be interrupting the maid's work, but no one would object. Sam was so well-behaved people seldom thought to tell him not to do anything. In this instance, his attention was inappropriate, but not unwanted.

Sam kept repositioning the girl, touching the side of her head and her shoulders. The girl would move on purpose - teasing him - so he'd go back and do it again, each time getting closer to her. The last time, Sam leaned down and, seeming unsure of himself, kissed her. The girl didn't object, and in fact kissed Samuel back before another fit of shy giggles overtook her and she batted him away.

"Now your face is the same color as the sunset," Mulder heard Sam tease her.

"Because of you, Mr. Sam." She moistened her lips with her tongue.

Mulder should have told Sam sternly and immediately to stop this dalliance with the maid. Instead, Mulder found himself thinking, as his own father must have years ago, if dallying - innocently or not - with this girl made Sam happy, he'd double her salary, install her in a bedroom across the hall from his son, and deal with the consequences later. 

Poppy glanced in, silently took note, glanced at Mulder, and moved on. If Mulder didn't object, she wouldn't either. 

Mulder slipped away. The next time he checked the library, Sam and the teenage maid sat side-by-side on the sofa, holding hands and looking at Sam's sketchpad. 

Mulder cleared his throat and said firmly, "Samuel-"

His son looked up. Mulder gestured for Sam to move away from the girl.

"Yes, sir," Sam said politely. He scooted a decent distance away and let go of the girl's hand. He picked up his sketch pad again. After a few seconds, the girl stood, retrieved her cloth and furniture polish, and turned her full attention to the bookshelves.

*~*~*~*

As the former mistress of a large plantation, Dana could handle Mulder's household with ease. Of course, Mulder's household hadn't known. Dana quickly had her fill of “That's not how Mrs. Mulder did it,” code for 'That's not how Poppy does it.' The seventh time Dana assigned a task and got that response, she'd stopped, turned, and icily informed the poor maid, "I am Mrs. Mulder."

And that, except for the constant, covert stream of complaints from Poppy for the first year, had been that.

Laundry was done on Thursday instead of Wednesday, and windows got washed on Monday morning instead of Friday afternoon. Large purchases like the dressmaker or grocer were still charged to Mulder’s account at the stores, but Dana instituted a ledger for household expenses. She recorded and handed out money for the market or milkman instead of Mulder replenishing the cash box in his desk. The silver chest acquired a lock and the wine cellar became off-limits to the servants. Poppy had been furious at the implication she or her staff would steal, but Mulder noticed he spent less on liquor, vegetables, and place settings. 

Dinner came to the table on time and, if Mulder was home, tea arrived in the library at four. The supply of clean, starched, and pressed shirts in the wardrobe held steady. His boots got polished and his pillow fluffed. His lunch tin sat ready each morning Mulder left for work, whether he ate it or not. He had no complaints. If a homemaking competition existed, with her methodical, observant, precise nature, Dana would have won it. 

Except for sewing.

The majority of their clothing was ready or tailor-made. Dana might alter, trim, or mend a garment, but she didn't spend the majority of her time sewing. Nor did she quilt, as Melissa had, or tat lace or embroidery silly little pillows as other women did. Any ladies maid should be able to mend a seam, but Melissa had always done it. Mulder, and then Mulder and Sam, had followed Dana around with frayed cuffs and missing buttons until she established a system. Rather than interrupting her day, the men should put any item of clothing requiring her attention in her sewing basket in the library; Dana would attend to the garment the next time she sat down. If her basket was empty, nothing required sewing.

That proved far too difficult for Mulder and Samuel. Things in need of mending or altering were kept everywhere - in boxes and drawers, under beds, on doorknobs and hooks - except in the sewing basket. Once Dana picked up her needle and thread, they recalled half their wardrobes required mending. They arrived in the library with armloads of ripped pockets and loose seams like pagans bringing offerings to the Textile Goddess.

Mulder and Samuel made it back to the library at the same time, each vying for their turn. Dana raised an eyebrow, sighed, made herself as comfortable as possible, and asked, "Do you have the button?" as they each offered a crumpled shirt.

"I lost it," Mulder responded as Samuel said, "It's pinned to the hem."

Dana reached for Sam's shirt. Mulder flopped dejectedly on the sofa to wait.

Emily toddled around, reaching for things she knew she shouldn’t touch, and looking to Mulder to tell her, "No-no, Emmy."

"No-no, Dahdah," Emily echoed. She moved on to the next item and continued the game. She could play the game for hours, until both of them needed a nap.

As usual, Sam busied himself behind his sketch pad, scratching away. He had an artist's knack for drawing unobtrusively. Samuel took the pad off the easel and moved closer, and Mulder realized Dana was his son's model. Several more seconds passed before Dana realized it. 

"Oh, Samuel," she protested. Mulder assumed more than eight months along, in mourning, and bent over her sewing wasn't how she wanted to be captured for posterity.

"Please," Samuel requested. His hand crisscrossed the paper. The marks looked like random scribbling, but Mulder knew they weren’t. Like Dana’s approach to housekeeping, Samuel’s drawing had an overall plan. An image would emerge like a sculptor discovering human form hidden inside a block of cold marble.

Within minutes, Samuel captured her in a series of stark black lines and smudges. He added a few final marks, blurred an edge with his thumb, thanked her, flipped to the next sheet, and turned to Emily - one of his favorite subjects. Emily didn't hold still, but she didn't complain, either.

"All right, Samuel, your-" Dana put her hand on her belly. "Your shirt is finished. Let, let- Please let me have the other."

Mulder leaned toward her as her face paled. “All right?” he asked.

Dana exhaled slowly and nodded. Mulder glanced at the clock, checking the time. She had a few pains yesterday, but hours apart. Dana told Mulder the baby remained too high to be coming soon.

Samuel put aside his drawing and came to her. “Dana? Ma'am?" he asked. 

Little beads of perspiration appeared on her temples. Her eyes, so long as Mulder watched her, were wide and frightened. As soon as Samuel came to the sofa, Dana took another breath and assured his son, “It is all right. The baby kicked. He surprised me."

"The baby kicked?" Samuel echoed.

Mulder sat back, wholly unconvinced. 

Dana nodded and managed smile for Samuel. "He did. Do you want to feel?"

Sam hesitated, curious but ill at ease. Melissa or even Poppy would not have invited or allowed such a thing. Even working women made every effort to hide their pregnancies. Babies were celebrated, but sexual intimacy bordered on sin, so being with child evidenced a quasi-sin, however hypocritical that logic.

Mulder didn’t think of Samuel as naïve, but some upper-class children reached their teens still believing storks brought babies or they were found in the cabbage patch. Many girls were married before they saw a man shirtless, and had no idea what a man looked like nude.

Samuel looked to his father. Mulder nodded, urging him to go ahead. Instead of touching Dana, Sam sat beside her and held out his hand like he expected to have it smacked with a ruler. Dana took it, placed it on the side of her abdomen, and waited. Samuel didn't move, but he looked everywhere except at Dana. 

"No-no, Dahdah," Emily called from underneath his desk.

"No-no, Emmy," Mulder answered without shifting his gaze from the other end of the sofa.

"There; that is a kick," Dana said.

Samuel nodded and, with his cheeks flushed, pulled his hand away. A few seconds later, he said cautiously, "You're bigger than Mother."

"I doubt that's what Dana wants to hear, Sammy," Mulder interjected awkwardly. "This baby's closer to being born than... Than the other."

Sam looked at Dana as if he hadn't heard his father. He studied her with his dark eyes. "Do you know how she died?"

"Yes, your father told me."

Samuel didn’t respond. Mulder thought the conversation had ended. Two nods, five minutes, and a dozen words: a conversation with Sam.

"It's a sin," Samuel said. "Poppy says she's in Hell."

Mulder’s mouth hung open, but Dana answered calmly, "You cannot know, Samuel. God can know the depths of her soul. Suicide, freely chosen, is a mortal sin, but she was so confused. Do you think she was able to choose? To truly understand what she did?"

Mulder shifted uncomfortably. She broke both his cardinal rules: don't say anything to upset Samuel, and don't mention Melissa's illness.

Rather than seeming upset, Samuel looked thoughtful. After consideration, he answered, “No.” 

Sam got up and left, leaving Mulder to stare at the back of his head. 

Once Mulder heard Sam’s bedroom door close upstairs, Mulder told Dana, “I am going to fire her. No, kill her,” he decided. “Fire her, and then kill her. What was she thinking?” He looked at Dana. “And you didn't help matters."

"I answered what he asked," she responded.

"I would have answered him." Though Mulder had no idea what he would have said. He was the man. Lord of his domain and all. Mulder should at least give the illusion of being in charge.

"He did not ask you," Dana said tersely. 

Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but footsteps descended the stairs. Sam reappeared in the library doorway with his sketch pad still under his arm. 

"What about the baby?" Samuel asked from the doorway, again looking to Dana for an answer. "Sarah?"

"A child is an innocent," she responded. "Born or unborn, it is incapable of sin."

“Dana is correct, Sam,” Mulder added firmly and needlessly. 

After a stilted pause, Samuel leaned against the doorframe. "Thank you for fixing my shirt," he told Dana.

"You are welcome. Do you want me to take off the armband?"

Three days was the usual period of mourning for men, marked by a black armband on their sleeve. Women wore black for months before switching to grays and violets, even for a distant relative or in-law, but extended grief was unseemly for men.

"No. Not yet. You should rest," Sam said, never the most convincing liar. "I don't need it."

"All right. Whenever you are ready." She gestured to her round abdomen. “I will not be hard to catch for the next month.”

Sam nodded. “You cannot run away,” he teased shyly. 

“I cannot even waddle away,” Dana told him, smiling. “I am at your disposal as a nearly-stationary seamstress.”

Samuel grinned.

"Sam, I don't think-" Mulder started to say, but Dana gave Mulder a look reminiscent of a dagger being unsheathed. "Whenever you're ready," Mulder reiterated.

*~*~*~* 

Samuel rarely left his bedroom door ajar. Now, Mulder heard Samuel unlock it to answer his father’s knock.

Mulder put his hands in his pockets, removed them, but shoved them in his pockets again. "I’m looking in on you," he said awkwardly. "I wanted to tell you goodnight."

"Goodnight, sir," Sam answered automatically. He still wore his shirt and trousers, but had unbuttoned his collar, rolled up his sleeves, and held sheet music he must have been reading. Samuel kept one hand on the door as if waiting to close it again.

"Sam, I- I've cried too." Once that unmanly admission left Mulder’s mouth, it felt easier to add, "I've had nightmares. I still have nightmares. Not just nightmares about the war, but about your mother, even about you. I've been afraid. Any man who claims he isn’t afraid in war is either lying or a fool."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm not ashamed of you for being upset at the funeral, or for crying,” Mulder continued. “Or for hating the war or for not being able to come home afterward. I've never been ashamed of you. You have such... You have such gifts, and you feel things more deeply than other people. I'm not what my father envisioned his son would be, either, but he loved me. He was proud of me."

"I'm not what you envisioned?"

"Sam, that's not at all what I meant. Grandfather had high expect- He could be-" Mulder scrambled for words. "I love you, Sammy. You can't imagine how much. I loved your mother. I hid in Dana's barn for months because I was afraid to come home. I hid inside myself for months, like you are, because I was afraid. I was afraid to let myself be afraid. It was to feel nothing, but you can't go through life like that."

"Yes, sir."

Mulder wasted his breath. Samuel’s polite expression didn’t alter, but curtains lowered behind his eyes. Mulder exhaled tiredly. "Goodnight," he said again. "Sleep well. You know where I am if you want someone to talk to."

"Goodnight, sir," his son responded once again, and closed the door. Mulder heard the latch turn, and the lock slide into place.

*~*~*~*

Mulder let his body fall backward onto the bed. After a brief weightlessness, the blankets engulfed him and he bounced to stop. He looked up at the white expanse of the master bedroom’s ceiling thoughtfully. For all the time he’d spent staring at that ceiling, he should have stamped tin tiles put up or a mural painted. Something interesting.

Dana sat at her dressing table, brushing out her hair before bed. After Mulder contemplated the ceiling a moment, she prompted, “Well? Did you talk to her?”

He turned his head to look at her. “Poppy didn’t tell Samuel Melissa is in Hell. She said they talked after Mother’s funeral about souls and spirits, and Samuel asked if Poppy could talk to Melissa.”

Dana’s hairbrush paused mid-air.

"Poppy's mother was Voodoo priestess," Mulder explained. "Poppy has all those plantation superstitions about omens and spirits and speaking with the dead. Sam asked if she could talk with Melissa. Poppy said she couldn't, and he assumed Melly was in Hell. It was a misunderstanding. Poppy said he was embarrassed about being upset at my mother's funeral, so I tried to talk to him- And made a mess of it." Mulder stretched his arms above his head and let his heels drum restlessly against the bed rail. "Poppy said Samuel feels slighted, second best. I pay more attention to you, Emily, and Harvey than to Samuel. She said he resents it."

"Do you believe her?" Dana asked.

"Why wouldn't I believe her?"

"I know what Voodoo is,” Dana informed him. “She should not be putting those ideas in Samuel's head. He is too vulnerable, too suggestible. And-" 

"She doesn't," he interrupted.

"Why did Samuel think to ask if she could talk to the dead?” Dana argued. “Samuel does not resent Emily. He plays with her all the time, pretending she is Melissa's daughter, I think. He seems interested in the baby, but worried, and I understand why. Aside from that, Samuel barely seems to notice me. Or you. Or Poppy. Or anything except his music and drawing unless he gets hungry or needs a button sewn."

"Why wouldn't Poppy tell me the truth?" 

Dana’s brows rose. "Because she is a liar."

"Oh, be serious. Why would Poppy lie?"

"That woman would say or do anything to control you. Melissa relied on her. You rely on her. She nursed Samuel. I think, over time, Poppy began to think of herself as the lady of your house, as your wife in everything but name. Did you know she tells people the two of you are lovers? Or, at least, she lets them assume? Those women at the symphony: it was not the first time I have heard that tale. While you were away during the war, she took a lover who resembles you, who's even related to you. You cannot see a pattern?"

"I think someone's tired and cranky," he said lightly. "Come here and I'll rub your back. Or front. Whichever." 

Dana’s hairbrush met the dressing table with a sharp whack. He sat up as she walked toward the bed. Mulder smiled at her. 

She didn't smile back. Instead, Dana demanded, "Is it this baby? Because I carry your child? Is that why you suddenly treat me like I am a slow child?"

"I didn't mean to," he said after several tense seconds. 

"Please do not ignore me. If you think I am wrong, correct me, but do not act as if what I say is too foolish to acknowledge. This fascination you have with why I married you? Partly because you treated me like a person instead of a possession. Now you put me on the shelf between your father's bust of Shakespeare and your mother's Oriental vase. I am another of your things. At least I am productive," she added, and put a hand on her swollen belly.

Mulder leaned forward and reached for her hand. “You are not," he said slowly, "merely a possession. I never dismiss what you say. You know how much I care for you."

"Yes, I do.” She ignored the hand he offered. “Would you care for me on my back, on my knees, or on my hands and knees?"

The tired purple shadows under her eyes made them the final shade of blue before black, and her cheeks flushed angrily. The last six inches of her hair hung unbraided and splayed over the front of her nightgown in thick auburn curls. 

Mulder looked at her with his jaw clenched.

“I am sorry,” she said tensely. “I should not be vulgar or disrespectful.”

“Then do not,” he suggested coolly. 

Her face flushed. “I mean, I, we-" She searched for words. Dana must be very upset to lose her fluid command of English. "If you want me, fine, but you will seduce me to keep from talking to me. I want to talk about Poppy and Samuel. It is important. This woman is dangerous to you and to your son, and I do not want her here. Write her a reference and send her on her way. Perhaps you could depend on her once, but her behavior is increasingly unpredictable, and you either cannot or refuse to see it."

"Why do you treat me like I am a slow child?" he shot back. "Yes, I know Poppy is manipulative and dramatic. She'd never hurt Samuel, though. Yes, she uses men, but no more than they've used her. Imagine what it was like for her. On Kavanaugh's plantation, she had nowhere to go, no one to help her-"

"I understand more than you can imagine, but that is not the point. Poppy did hurt Samuel. She told your fifteen-year old son his mother and sister burn in Hell. She upset Samuel so much he talked to me - and he usually talks to me even less than he talks to you. How can you say she did not hurt him? How can you shrug and accept her excuse it was a misunderstanding?"

"It's the truth." Mulder swallowed guiltily. “Melly was confused, but she understood if she cut herself, she would die and the baby would die with her. What you told Sam? That's not the truth. His mother knew what she did."

"I knew it was not the truth, but Samuel needs to believe in something. As you needed to believe in something. How many months passed before you could tell me Melissa died, let alone how she died? Write Melissa a few more letters and tell me how your son should face the cruel truth, Mr. Mulder. He is a child. He may look like a man, but he is a child who has faced unspeakable horror and loss. Who-"

“Who cannot stand to lose anyone else,” he interrupted.

Dana nodded and said softly, “Yes.” 

Mulder still sat on the edge of the bed. He looked down at his feet dangling above the rug. "Poppy is all Samuel has left.”

“I think Poppy is all you have left, Mr. Mulder.”

He shook his head. “No.”

An exasperated sigh passed her lips. 

“Lie down,” he told her, “Please? Be angry with me if you want, but lie down. Sam's right. You look so tired, Dana. You're doing too much."

"Two married people in the same bed?” she responded flippantly. “What will the help think?"

"Hopefully, they'll be scandalized. Besides, it doesn't count if I don't undress or close my eyes." 

Mulder moved over as Dana maneuvered onto the bed. She lay on her back and helped him look at the ceiling.

He heard Samuel playing a mournful funeral march softly on his cello. 

“I love you,” Mulder assured Dana, and took her hand. “I will speak to Poppy again, but everything will be fine. Samuel’s getting better. You’re going to have this baby - hopefully in the next week. We'll get settled in Boston...” He trailed off tiredly. 

Dana rolled to her side and shifted as if trying to get comfortable.

The sad notes continued to float down the hallway.

He worked up the nerve to ask, “With Samuel, earlier: that was not the baby kicking. Are those pains? Is something wrong?”

“Yesterday, the doctor said the baby is fine,” Dana answered evasively. 

“I did not ask what the doctor thought; I asked what you thought.” He curled up to her back and had Dana lay her head on his outstretched arm. “Did you tell the doctor about us, last week?”

“No. I did not tell him because you are my husband and me pleasing you is not his concern.”

“It is his concern if I have harmed you or the baby,” Mulder said.

“You did not,” Dana answered, sounding certain. “The pains, the pain in my back, the bleeding - nothing is new.”

“You have had bleeding?”

Her head nodded affirmatively against his arm.

Mulder waited for an explanation he knew was not forthcoming. The doctor said the baby was fine, he reminded himself. As much as Mulder had not anticipated this child until it was conceived, he had never anticipated something could go wrong as it was born: for Dana, for the baby. For both. In a week, Mulder might find himself standing in the cemetery again, burying his wife and child. Again.

He put his other arm around Dana. Not around her belly, but above it, holding her close.

“I do not know anything is wrong, Mr. Mulder,” she assured him. 

“You must take care of yourself. Samuel cannot stand to lose anyone else, but I cannot stand to lose anyone else, either,” he confessed.

*~*~*~* 

As Dana slept, Mulder lay beside her and listened as the grandfather clock downstairs struck three o'clock, and then three-fifteen and three-thirty, slowly eating away at the remains of the night. He felt too restless to sleep and too weary to get up, so he spent hours lurking below the surface of consciousness but short of dreams. 

Though the only sound was Dana's soft breathing, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Mulder opened his eyes to see his son watching them from the doorway. An oil lamp burned far down the hall, silhouetting Sam with an eerie yellow glow, like the eclipse of a distant sun. Samuel wore loose flannel drawers, but no shirt or undershirt or socks. His black hair fell to his bare shoulders. His handsome face, half-hidden in shadow, was expressionless.

Mulder pushed up on his elbow. He glanced back at Dana, and at Sam. Mulder didn't think he'd been asleep, but he hadn't heard Sam approach or the door open.

"What's wrong?" he called softly. Samuel didn't move or respond. "It's all right; we were just sleeping," he added. He rubbed the sand from eyes. "What is it, Sammy?"

Sam continued staring at them. Unnerved, Mulder sat up, running his fingers through his hair. Dana shifted. She rested her hand on the indention his body left, but she didn't wake as he moved away.

"What's wrong?" Mulder repeated as he got up, feeling like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. He'd dropped his trousers on the rug earlier, so he slipped them on over his drawers. He glanced around for his shirt or undershirt. "Dana was cold earlier," he lied as he dressed. "I must have fallen asleep."

His son still didn't seem to hear him. Samuel continued to stand motionless in the doorway, watching the darkness like an Indian brave on guard. Sam's blank face reminded Mulder of his mother's ghost: an echo of something no longer fully present. Mulder found his undershirt, but he shivered anyway.

"Sammy?" Mulder stepped closer. Sam was sleepwalking, not lurking. "Come on son," he whispered, trying not to wake the boy. "Let's get you back to bed. Come on Sammy."

Mulder put his hand on Sam's shoulder and turned his son toward the hallway. Once pointed in the right direction, Samuel moved obediently, letting his father guide him through the dark house. Their bare feet met quietly with the cool, polished floor. Their shadows followed them on the walls, gliding after them like silent doppelgangers.

They reached the lamp halfway down the hall, and Samuel stopped. Sam looked at the large mirror above the table outside the ballroom. 

"Come on, Sammy," Mulder prompted. "Back to bed. It's all right."

Instead of moving, Samuel turned his head. He looked at Mulder vacantly and back at their dim reflections in the looking glass.

"We're mistakes," Samuel whispered, like someone else used his voice to tell a secret. "All of us."

Mulder, uncertain Sam meant, nodded mutely. The hair prickled on his neck again.

"We shouldn't be here," Sam said to their reflection in the same empty voice. "We're dead."

Mulder shivered and swallowed dryly. "No one's dead, Sammy," he said. "Come on."

Mulder, knowing he was too old to get spooked by dark shadows in corners, tried to guide Sam forward again. His obedient son didn't budge.

"Not her, though." Sam looked back at the master bedroom where Dana slept, and had the tiniest bit of idle curiosity in his otherwise monotone voice. "Not yet."

Sam gazed at Mulder blankly, with a dead man's eyes, seeing something his father couldn't. Mulder's heart beat double-time inside his chest. He took a slow breath, reminding himself Sam's eyes were open, but the boy remained sound asleep and talked the nonsense of dreams.

"I can't choose," Sam told him. "I shouldn't have to choose." 

"Choose what?" Mulder asked, and got no answer.

He would not be afraid of his own son.

He would not be afraid of his own son – or whatever Sam could see in that mirror. In fact, he would have the mirror moved to the attic tomorrow. It had been one of Melly’s follies. They had no need for such a large mirror in a hallway.

"Back to bed, Sammy." Mulder put his hand on Sam's back and gave him a firm push. "Let's go."

Sam didn't speak again as Mulder walked him back to his bedroom and had him lay down. The boy rested his head on the pillow. His eyes followed Mulder as Mulder retrieved the blankets from the floor.

"Sleep," Mulder whispered. He sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm right here."

He took another slow breath, telling himself to calm down. It was late and he was tired. Finding his son roaming the house was not extraordinary. 

As Mulder waited, Sam shifted, opened his eyes, and asked, "Daddy?" sounding a decade younger. "What's wrong? Is the baby coming?"

"Nothing's wrong. No, the baby’s not coming yet. You had a bad dream." Mulder smoothed the dark hair back from Sam's forehead, his hand shaking. "Go to sleep. I'll be right here. I love you. Sleep, baby boy."

After a second, Sam's eyes closed trustingly and his face relaxed, looking young and peaceful.

As he waited, to calm his nerves, Mulder lit the oil lamp beside Sam's bed. He assured himself he lit the lamp so his son wouldn't be frightened of the shadows.

*~*~*~*

Regardless of what Dana insisted, Mulder hadn't done right by his son.

All those years ago, when Bill Mulder asked if Mulder was the father of Melissa's unborn child, Mulder understood the consequences of answering affirmatively. From the moment of Sam’s birth, Mulder wanted to take a broom and sweep his son's path clear. He could buy him every physical comfort and opportunity, but he'd never been able to give Sam what the boy needed most.

Melissa spent the weeks after Sam's birth refusing to eat or talk to anyone or leave the bedroom. She didn't want anything to do with Samuel. The doctor said she was young, delicate, and had to get to know her baby. Which seemed like an adequate explanation until Teena Mulder caught Melly holding the baby underwater in the washbasin. 

Mulder’s father arranged a series of doctors and asylums for Melly while Mulder was at school. By the time Samuel was four, Sam knew the difference between 'Sad Mommy,' and 'Nice Mommy,' and 'Silly Mommy.' ‘Sad Mommy’ couldn’t have razors or knives, and ‘Silly Mommy’ painted the windows black so no one could see into the bedroom.

Mulder worried Sam might resent Melissa, but Samuel understood her far better than Mulder. Sam and Melly were kindred souls, artists who found beauty in a grain of sand and passion in the contrast between middle C and F sharp.

Mulder did not. Mulder loved a good cause and a spine-chilling ghost story. To hunt and ride. He loved books and mysteries and occasionally fine brandy and an expensive cigar. Over the years, he learned about arias and linear perspective, but Mulder remained a foreigner in his son's land, floundering and struggling to comprehend the language.

Melissa understood Sam and, because of Mulder's impulsiveness and carelessness, Melissa died. Mulder couldn't take back the Christmas night she conceived. He couldn't reverse the evening seven months later he fell asleep on the parlor sofa and she slit her wrists, taking Sam's unborn sister with her into death. And he couldn't take back the years he spent at war, or Bill or Teena Mulder's death. Mulder couldn't erase the horrors Sam must have seen with General Sherman or the pain of coming home to a family and a world he no longer felt part of.

Mulder could try to claw his way back to his son as much as he liked; Sam continued drifting farther away.

Samuel had the horse saddled as Mulder entered the stable. Mulder still wore his coat and hat. He slowed to a stroll as he passed the other stalls. As he reached Sam, Mulder put his hands in his pockets. "I hear you're taking a trip," Mulder said casually.

Sam chewed his lip as he fitted the bit into the horse’s mouth. He sniffed and blinked, and nodded.

Dana hasn’t specified what happened – some unpleasant exchange between them, Mulder imagined – but, upset, she sent Mulder to the stable the moment he arrived home. Mulder suspected she’d caught Sam with the little maid, embarrassing both of them. 

"Would you like to tell me where you're going?"

"Colorado,” Sam managed. “They're mining gold there. I could mine gold."

Mulder leaned against a post and crossed his arms. "Take your warmest gloves. The Rocky Mountains are chilly in December. You're too late to be a 49er, though, and there's the likelihood you'll get scalped, cannibalized, buried by an avalanche, run over by a buffalo, or starve to death."

"California," Sam said, his voice quaking. "I'll go to California."

"To get to California, you have to get through the Rocky Mountains. Again, there's the freeze-or-starve-to-death impasse. Why don't you come inside and have a big, hot dinner first? Fortify yourself and see if you calm down?"

His son fastened the bridle, tossed his saddlebags over the horse, and started to lead it out of the stable. Samuel refused to meet Mulder's eyes. Dana was right; he was serious.

"Sammy, what happened?" Mulder asked seriously. "What's wrong?"

"I don't belong here. I can't stay here. I'm sorry, but I can't. I don't want to be this person."

"What's happened, son? Dana didn't tell me."

"Good," Sam answered. He put Mulder in mind of a skittish animal ready to bolt at any minute. "Please let me go. I want to leave. I shouldn't have ever come back." He grimaced as if struggling not to cry. "Please," he repeated earnestly.

"What happened? Tell me."

Sam vigorously shook his head.

"Did you and Dana have a disagreement?"

"Yes. No."

"She's tired and she's uncomfortable, Sam. I'm sure she didn't mean to hurt your feelings and, anyway, I suspect she caught you doing something you shouldn’t have been. Let me talk to her about whatever's happened and-"

Sam barked "No!"

"No, what? Sammy, you can't leave. Dana tries to take care of you and to make you happy. She's about to have a baby; come inside and-"

"I can't face her!" Sam blurted out, but paused before he added, "She's not my mother. She shouldn't be barging around our house like she is."

Mulder took a slow breath. "Tell me what happened. You and the little maid? Is that what Dana barged in on?"

The dark head shook no. Sam caught his lower lip between his teeth again. "Can we- Can we go to Boston? I don’t want to be here anymore."

"Dana can't travel," he tried to explain. "But soon-"

"No, without her. You and I. We could stay in Boston and you can divorce her."

"Divorce her?" Mulder echoed in disbelief. 

"You could divorce her, and we could keep Emily." 

"Dana's my wife and you're my son; neither of those things is changing. Are you serious, Sam? Divorce? Who put that idea into your head? Poppy?" 

Sam glanced up and asked in a frighteningly calm voice, "What if she dies?"

"No one is going to die!" Mulder barked, and Sam cowered. "God, Sammy, how can you say that?"

Mulder tried to think how to pacify Sam before the boy disappeared into a mineshaft again. "Dana will have to stay in DC for at least a month after the baby comes,” he said. “You can stay in Boston with me. I'm sure it is hard to see her in your mother's place, especially about to have a baby. I'm sure those memories-" 

Sam buttoned his coat and pulled the horse's reins to turn it toward the door.

"Sam, stop. Stop and think. I love you, and I know you're hurting, but I love Dana too. And Emmy. And the baby. This is our family. I know it's different, but it's a nice family. You're asking me to choose, and you're not even giving me a reason why you dislike Dana. You've gotten along with her for months. I know she's not your mother, but I can't bring your mother back, Sam."

"I want to leave. I don't belong here."

"You do belong here. Let me talk to Dana, see-"

"No," Sam said. "Please don't talk to her. Please don't. I don't want her to know."

"All right," Mulder agreed. He didn't particularly want Dana to know about this discussion, either. "But I'm not letting you run off to Timbuktu."

"I want to go to the London Music Conservatory. Can I go there?"

"I-I can check, but I think you have to be sixteen."

"I could go- I could go to..." Sam looked around, as if searching for a destination. Not finding one, he looked lost.

"I'd put you on the next train to Boston, except I'm afraid you won't make it there. I'm afraid you'd vanish again. I'm leaving on the twenty-ninth,” Mulder told him. “Do you think you can make it another five days? I want to stay as long as I can, to be here when the baby comes."

His son nodded. Samuel fiddled with the bridle but didn’t look at it. "It won't make a difference whether you're here or not."

Mulder looked up again. "What won't make a difference? You said something about Dana dying. Are you upset, or has Poppy put that idea into your head too? Or is it something else? Is it like knowing Grandfather would die? Or you telegraphing me about your mother?"

"I don't know."

"Please try, Sammy. I love her. Try hard."

Sam paused. "I don't know. I can't tell. There's so much noise here. Music blocks it out, but otherwise it gets inside my head and I can't think."

"All right. It's all right. Promise me you won't go anywhere for the next five days. We'll go to Boston and figure things out there. I won't mention this discussion to Dana; I promise. Do we have a deal?"

One last nod, and Sam sank down on a bale of hay. Mulder unsaddled the horse. As Mulder returned from the tack room, he heard a strangled sound. Samuel had his face in his hands, struggling not to cry. Mulder stood over him uncertainly. He sat with one arm, then both around his son's shoulders. Mulder expected Sam to jerk away, but he didn't, so Mulder sat holding him, looking around the stable for some explanation as to why the sky was falling.

*~*~*~*

Since Bill Mulder chose his son’s tutors, Mulder’s education had been heavy on military history and literature, light on art. Mulder could quote Homer and out-maneuver Napoleon, but he didn't know Caravaggio from a crow or Michelangelo from a magpie. Only from Samuel had Mulder developed any appreciation of art besides whether he liked it or didn't like it.

Years ago, Sam, still missing all four of his front teeth, taught Mulder about a vanishing point one afternoon in the Smithsonian Museum. Showing his father a medieval picture of Mary and Jesus, Samuel explained why it lacked the illusion of depth and looked like the figures were piled on top of each other. Sammie moved to a Renaissance painting where the figures leapt off the canvas, and Mulder nodded. Sam’s explanation made sense. Paintings looked real because everything moved toward one point and disappeared into the distance like water swirling down the drain.

Mulder spun the stem of his wine glass to make a whirlpool, watching the wine slosh against the crystal sides and accidentally over the rim and onto the letter on his desk. The ink ran purple as he tried to dry it, but he put the letter in the drawer anyway, knowing no one would ever read it.

He heard a noise in the next room. A moment later, Poppy appeared in her nightgown, carrying Sadie. Mulder followed them to the parlor, where Poppy quietly explained to the little girl Santa hadn't come yet.

"Not yet," Mulder reiterated. He leaned on the back of a chair in the seldom-used front parlor. Holly bowers and empty stockings decked the mantle, and the tree glittered with silver bells and crocheted white snowflakes. "Soon,” he assured them. “He's down the street. You'd better hurry and go back to sleep."

"She's up for good, Fox," Poppy said tiredly. She covered her mouth as she yawned. "Sam's awake, too."

"Is it that late? That early?" He squinted at the grandfather clock. It read four-thirty. He'd been drinking, writing, and staring at the sky all night. "I meant to light the candles on the tree, build a fire, get the p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s out..." Sober up, shave, change clothes, find some holiday cheer. 

Poppy looked at him quizzically.

“Presents,” he mouthed.

"You watch her and I'll do it," she volunteered. At two and a half, Sadie was the only one in the house with any interest in Santa. Emily remained too little to care, and Samuel figured out the truth at five once the stripes washed off his zebra.

"You wanna come with me, Miss Sadie?" Mulder asked her. He took her from Poppy and swung her high into the air. "Help me make coffee?"

Sadie was agreeable. Sadie was always agreeable. Though older than Emily, she said few words and barely started walking. Still, she was a pretty, happy little girl who bore an uncanny resemblance to Samuel. 

By the time Mulder had a fire going in the kitchen stove and water boiling on top of it, Poppy reappeared. She wore a black dress with a white kerchief and apron. He handed her the coffee beans and grinder, relinquishing his role as chef. 

"Make it strong," he requested. He pushed out his bottom lip out to amuse Sadie. The little girl sat on the kitchen table in front of Mulder, swinging her bare feet and watching her mother as they waited.

"You look like you need it. Are you sober? 

"I'm close," he answered. "I can see sober, but I'm not there yet. A few cups of coffee and I will be, though. I'll be okay."

"You been up all night? What's wrong?"

He nodded, but changed the topic. "Are you staying here for Christmas? I didn't think you were working today."

"I'm not working; I'm making coffee. Besides, where would I go?"

"I don't know. I thought..." Mulder ran his fingers through his hair. "Alex has his faults, but he's her father. Why don't you let him see her? It's Christmas."

A month had healed Mulder’s pride and given him time to think. Many men he respected kept mistresses or patronized whorehouses for services that made Mulder's skin crawl. They were still doting fathers and loving husbands. Mulder preferred his wife, but not all men did. In fact, since marriages were usually based on convenience or monetary gain, most men didn't. He had trouble with the idea of two men together but, rereading Whitman, realized Alex wasn't entirely to blame for kissing him. Mulder never thought of himself as sexually naïve but, in the first few months of marriage to Dana, he learned to clarify before agreeing or requesting – or risk great embarrassment. Turned out, sodomy and fellatio differed greatly. 

"He's not her father," Poppy’s voice said.

"He's not?" Mulder echoed, jarred back to reality. He only spilled the last of the wine. Between midnight and four, the rest disappeared into him.

"No. She's your girl."

Mulder reached for the cup of coffee she offered, but held it out of Sadie's reach. "You wanna be my girl, Miss Sadie?" He leaned closer and put his forehead against hers. "You're beautiful, like my Sammy at your age. You could be my girl."

"Tanta Cause," she requested, blinking endless eyelashes at him.

"Tanta can't come until I have coffee. Here." Mulder held the cup between them. "Help me blow. Blow easy, or it'll go all over my lap."

Sadie blew across the surface, managing mostly air with a little spit.

Mulder glanced at Poppy. She still stood beside the stove, watching him. 

"I don't think you get to dismiss Alex as her father because you're unhappy with him," he told her lightly. 

"No, she's yours, Fox."

"A Christmas gift?" He waited for Poppy to laugh. "Poppy, she's not mine. You can't joke about that," he told her seriously. He jumped as a Sadie blew again and a splash of coffee hit his trouser leg. "Easy," he reminded her.

"I'm not telling anyone."

Mulder sat the cup aside and turned his head to look at her. "I mean it. I don’t want you saying it. Dana wouldn't find it funny, and neither would Sam."

"I said I won't tell," she insisted.

"But-" Mulder lowered Sadie to the floor and directed the child toward the dining room. "But I am not her father. We-" He gestured back and forth between them. "have never been together. I don't mind you having her here, and she's Melissa's niece and she's beautiful, but you will not tell people she's my daughter."

"You don't remember?"

"Remembered what? I wasn't even in DC when, uh-"

"No, we were in a hotel in Louisville." She still stood beside the stove, arms folded, acting like this was a normal conversation. "You remember your mother and me moving you from the hospital to a hotel? She and Melissa left, but I stayed with you. I took care of you."

"Yes, I remember. I also remember three dozen stitches in my chest and so much morphine I felt like I was floating."

She nodded.

Mulder wet his lips and said slowly, "Poppy, I guarantee we've never been together. I may have been drugged, but... No. Your dates don't match. If you're playing a joke on me or trying to pay Alex back, stop. This isn't funny; this is inappropriate and hurtful. Do you realize how many people you could hurt?"

"I won't tell anyone." He opened his mouth to protest, but she added gently, "Fox, you don't owe me anything. It happens. You didn't force me. You asked and I wanted to. You know I wanted to."

He stared at her in disbelief, still tipsy. Jesus Christ, she believed it. And he couldn't think of any way to prove her wrong. 

Mulder heard Dana get out of bed upstairs and Grace's claws tripping up and down the hallway between the bedrooms. Sam was up, which meant he'd gotten Emily up, which meant Dana was up before five. So much for Dana resting.

"Did you tell Melly?" Mulder asked Poppy.

She studied and calculated her answer for half a second. 

Once again, Dana was right; Poppy was dangerous.

He tired of Dana being right.

"Did you tell Melly you and I were lovers?” he demanded. “Before she died, while I was in Georgia, did you tell Melly I was the father of the baby you carried?"

"No. No, course not. Fox, I'm not tryin' to cause problems. You asked who her father was. I didn't know you didn't remember; I thought you weren't saying anything. You had Emily and Dana. She trusts you, and this would hurt her."

"Are you trying to blackmail me?” he guessed. 

"No," she insisted innocently. "No, Fox. Never."

"What have you told Sam?" 

As the floorboards squeaked overhead, Mulder considered his options. He picked up his coffee cup and clutched the handle angrily. "If you breathe one word of this insane story - to Sam, to Dana, to anyone - I will fire you. Whether you think you're telling the truth or not, I don't care. You'll be out of a job without a reference. No nice family will hire you and you know where you'll end up. Am I making myself clear?"

"I won't tell anyone," she repeated, backing away. She shivered, though the kitchen had warmed.

"I want you out of my house. You're not staying here at night with my family. The one reason you still have a job is Sam loves you. Find a flat and I'll pay the rent, but I want you out. Today. This morning. Don’t bring your daughter to work again, either."

He set his cup down hard, spilling it across the kitchen table. Without looking back, he went to help Dana down the stairs. 

To Mulder’s surprise, Samuel carried Emily and walked slowly with Dana. Sam offered his arm in case Dana lost her balance. For a boy who discussed her death twelve hours earlier, Sam appeared a perfectly solicitous escort. Grace would waddle a few steps below them, wait, watch, and wag until Dana and Samuel caught up.

"Good morning. Merry Christmas." Mulder forced a smile and took Emily from Sam.

"Merry Christmas," Sam answered while Dana caught her breath. The doctor kept coming to check on her and promising it would be “any day, Mrs. Mulder.” From the look of Dana, any minute was more like it.

"Cwith-mas," Emily added, giving Mulder’s stubbly cheek a wet kiss.

*~*~*~* 

End: Paracelsus X

Begin: Paracelsus XI

*~*~*~*

Melissa,

Have I ever told you of Paracelsus? Thanks to Father, he's another of those scientist-philosophers about whom I know more than is necessary. Settle in, close your eyes. I will lull you to sleep with one of my boring stories.

Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus Von Hohenheim was born November 11, 1493 in Einsiedeln, Switzerland. Paracelsus, to his contemporaries - so called because he was believed to be on par with the great Roman physician Celsus. He was born the year after Columbus discovered the New World and Leonardo Di Vinci drew his flying machine; he died while Henry VIII tormented his fifth wife and the first white men sailed the Mississippi. He attended the finest universities in Europe but discussed medicine and philosophy with gypsies and village wise women. He became the most respected and most scandalous scientist of his day, a great Renaissance naturalist, a chemist, a doctor and a thinker who turned society on its ear by telling people the truth. In that, I felt a kinship to him.

During his lifetime men still believed they could turn lead into gold and yet began to understand illness was not sorcery or punishment from God. The alchemy of the Dark Ages faded as modern scientific enlightenment took hold. He lived in a time of awakening - except for the Inquisition and the remnants of the Black Plague. The world began to open its eyes to facts but still clung to its threadbare mysticism.

Like Paracelsus, I am caught between two worlds, the old and the new. From my old world, I have my beautiful Sam, who dwells in the mists of Camelot and plays his lute for the high king. From the new world, I have my Dana, my rational friend and my redeemer. They are both parts of me - I feel each of them in my bones - but they are opposing elements, and I am not an alchemist. I am not Paracelsus; I cannot have both, and yet I cannot bear to choose.

In his poem, Mr. Robert Browning wrote of Paracelsus wondering if he had lived his lifetime once and followed an oddly familiar path. Perhaps he - or I - as we perished ages ago, in the moment of death, sent up a prayer for one more chance so earnest dim memories of our old life remain, emerging now, when once more the goal is in sight.

I know I should not be here, Melly. I know this should not be my life. It is a second chance, Melly, but why? 

Forgoing sleep myself, I stand guard over Dana as she tries to rest. She is uncomfortable and uneasy as the birth of our first son approaches. I listen to my other son roam the house in the darkness, alone and searching for something I cannot give him. He too says he should not be here; this is a world with no place for him. He returned from courting Death in the coal mines not because he wished to, but because I am his father and, like you, he is obedient.

Paracelsus believed in the prima material, a world soul, a shared simplicity deep within the heart of every man, waiting to be tapped. The truth is within us, waiting to be discovered. Looking inside myself tonight, it is a simple truth: I know Dana. I have known her for eons, but in this lifetime we were not meant to be together. After Sarah died, my passage through this life was for others: for you, for Samuel, for those I will never meet because I chose another path two summers ago in the Georgia Low County. Or I made a mistake by not following Sarah into death that day near your home in Tennessee, and my error has no end.

Man is not body, Paracelsus wrote. The heart, the spirit is man. Perhaps this is one of many worlds, Melly, each with the same cast of souls, but the script unwritten. Perhaps, like Paracelsus, I have followed this path before, each time stumbling along a different course, trying to find the right one. Trying to find the truth inside myself at last, before I slip from this world into the next. I feel the urgency in every beat of my heart and in the increasing weariness of my soul. Like Dana and Sam, it is something I know in my bones. My already-borrowed time with them grows short. Yet tonight, the answers are as elusive as ever.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Medieval knights had armor; Mulder had his grin. A crooked smile, a few dry jokes. He could hemorrhage inside and still stay on his feet. 

As dawn approached on Christmas morning, his family made their way downstairs and into the parlor, where gifts were stacked around the tree. Small candles tucked among the branches twinkled, and the oil lamps glowed along the walls. Sam had dressed, but Dana wore her nightgown and wrapper, with the sash tied high over her belly. She sat slowly on the sofa and tucked a cushion behind her back. Emily, still in a flannel nightgown and her cap, leaned against Sam as she sucked her thumb.

Mulder stood beside the tree and watched the idyllic scene, feeling further removed from it than one bottle of red wine should have allowed. Dana rested one hand on her stomach and gave him a tired smile; he grinned back automatically and hollowly.

With no good way to wrap a guitar, Mulder left it in the wooden shipping crate. Sam spotted the crate, jerked the top off, and dug through the straw. Sam lifted the guitar case out of the crate. He flipped the latches, opened the case, and looked at the polished wood and gleaming frets like a man in love. "You found one," he said reverently. "A twelve-string."

"That thing came all the way from Spain," Mulder responded, slurring his S's. "So it plays in Spanish."

Samuel eased it out of the case. He fitted his hand around the neck and caressed the delicate curve of the mahogany body. Asking if Samuel liked the guitar seemed unnecessary. Sam stationed himself in front of the fireplace with his new mistress, as if forgetting every other package beneath the tree.  
One of Emily's presents finished its saucer of milk, wormed out of the blue ribbon around its neck, and curled up on the hearth beside him. 

Emily crawled into the empty packing crate, wrapped her lips around her thumb, and closed her eyes. Three minutes into Christmas morning, they lost two of the participants. 

"Do you want to open yours, Dana?" Mulder asked. His voice sounded too loud, and his nose tingled pleasantly. "Your present. Do you want me to get it?"

He retrieved a box wrapped in newsprint and thrust it under her nose.

"You wrapped this one yourself," Dana guessed, examining his handiwork skeptically.

Mulder nodded proudly. He wore the boots that came in the box; no expense had been spared. She opened the lid, and looked puzzled as she pulled out two sheaths of handwritten pages, each bound with twine.

"That's Scientific American," he told her. “The other's a medical journal called The Lancet. In Irish-Gaelic," he added. "One of my new typesetters is Irish and translated them. Do you like it?"

"I do," she answered. Dana leaned forward. She looked at Mulder closely, and sniffed.

He looked away and adjusted a candle on the tree.

"Good. Well..." Mulder cleared his throat, trying to appear cheerful and sober at the same time. "We have a baby in a manger, heavenly music, and I guess a cat and dog can pass as barnyard animals. It's too late for a virgin birth, I suppose?"

Dana raised her eyebrows. 

It sounded so funny in Mulder’s head, though.

As Emily slept and Samuel communed with Bach, Dana asked quietly, "You never came to bed last night. How much have you had to drink?" 

Mulder held up his hand, measuring an inch between his thumb and index finger. "Just a little bit." Except it came out "jus-lil bit," renouncing T's and conserving syllables.

Her lips were drawn into a thin, angry line. Samuel's new guitar accompanied an otherwise long silence between them until Mulder held up his hand again, the distance between his fingers to six inches, or four-fifths of the bottle.

On the opposite corner of the house, the back door opened and closed. Poppy left, taking Sadie with her. 

Mulder couldn't imagine how to explain the mess to Dana, especially after swearing he'd never been with Poppy and Sadie wasn't his child. As much as he wanted to dismiss Poppy’s far-fetched story, a nagging doubt lingered. He felt dirty, angry, used, but without the energy to yell or hit anything. His insides quivered, but he lacked anyone to be angry with besides himself.

"Dana, I'm sorry,” Mulder told her. “I didn't think everyone would be up so early. We could go upstairs and sleep a few more hours," he told her. "Then have a nice Christmas."

"You can go upstairs and go to sleep," she whispered, speaking softly but giving a direct order.

Across the room, Sam stopped playing and watched them.

"Fine," Mulder said. He stood unsteadily. "Grace, wanna come with me, boy?"

Grace opened his eyes, closed them again, and didn't move from Sam's feet.

"Goddamn useless mutt," Mulder muttered under his breath and stalked up the stairs. 

If all else failed, cuss the dog.

*~*~*~*

Lacking anywhere else to go, Sarah and Melissa spent so much time with the Mulders they had their own bedroom. The two girls preferred to be together, with Poppy sleeping at their feet. That morning, Melly came to breakfast, but Mulder thought nothing of Sarah’s absence. Like Dana, Sarah was a night owl who'd sleep as late as the maids let her. 

"Female complaints," his mother said when Mulder asked Sarah’s whereabouts at lunch. Mulder hadn't known what 'female complaints' were and wasn’t about to ask.

He ate, finished his lessons and, tired of Melissa and her shy, schoolgirl crush, went riding. When he returned, his mother sent him to get the doctor and his father, and try to find Jack Kavanaugh. He'd found Bill Mulder and the doctor, but spent several hours searching for Sarah and Melissa's father before he gave and returned home. Kavanaugh was probably in a brothel, and Mulder wasn't allowed in those.

His parents' house was silent. The maid’s eyes followed Mulder as he passed, still wearing his riding boots and trousers from the afternoon.

"Who's sick? Or hurt? Is someone hurt?" Mulder asked as his mother passed. She carried a basket of bloody sheets and towels down the stairs. Mulder offered to carry them for her, but she told him to go to his bedroom and wait until his father came to speak to him.

"All- all right," Mulder answered uncertainly.

He sat on his bed - the same bed he and Melly would share on their wedding night a year later - and waited. Dread built like a tidal wave inside him. His parent's room was next to his. He heard their muffled voices arguing, which increased his nauseous trepidation. He heard his mother crying.

His bedroom door opened, and his father entered, bolstered by a few snifters of brandy. Mulder stood. His father paced uneasily, refusing to look at him.

"Sarah's ill," his father said, which Mulder had appreciated. "The bleeding started during the night, and she must have thought it was the curse."

Mulder wanted to ask what this curse was, but he hadn't.

"The doctor says there's nothing he can do. She has a fever. She's unconscious, but if you want to sit with her, you can. If you're man enough to do this, you're man enough to see her."

"Father, I-"

"Don't you dare make excuses, Fox," his father responded icily. "She's a nice girl. I don't know what you could have been thinking. I raised you better than this."

"I don't understand," he'd pleaded in a five instead of a fifteen year-old's voice.

"She's miscarried. Or she's gone to some second-rate midwife and gotten rid of the baby. Regardless, she's dying," Bill Mulder answered, and turned and left. 

Time slowed. Mulder’s skin tingled. All the air left the room. The young still believed they could forestall tragedy by pretending it didn't exist, and he tried. His bedroom was sixty feet from Sarah and Melly’s. Mulder managed to believe for the entire sixty feet he would open the door and she would be fine. 

Melly huddled on an upholstered bench in the hall, looking small. That was what Melly did in crises: huddle and look small.

The fresh sheets were white, but the wet, coppery scent of blood hung in the air, collecting in his throat and choking him. Sarah was ashen, and a sheen of perspiration covered her forehead. Her lips moved wordlessly, and her open eyes saw nothing. Her face contorted in pain and she writhed in the bed, but relaxed and drifted away again. 

"Sarah?" Mulder said hoarsely. She hadn't responded.

As he stood beside the bed, his father entered, bringing a chair. Bill Mulder told him to sit. To hold her hand. 

Sarah’s hand felt like fire, but Mulder clutched it. He had an idea where babies came from - in the general sense - and he and Sarah hadn't done anything to cause that. They'd kissed, and he'd touched her breasts. She’d touched him through his trousers, but he thought it took more to cause a baby.

With the drapes drawn, the candle flickering on the nightstand gave the only light in the claustrophobic darkness. Mulder told her everything was all right. She'd caught a chill and she'd feel better soon. He told her they'd get married someday, build a big house in Chattanooga, and have a dozen children. He promised, if she'd get better, she could spend her life bossing him around to her heart's content. As the night wore on, he promised he'd take care of Melissa, keep her safe. He promised whoever did this to her wouldn't go unpunished. 

She'd never regained consciousness, and been gone by morning, four months shy of her sixteenth birthday.

*~*~*~* 

Mulder woke to the hem of Dana’s dress in front of him. His chest felt tight and he tasted the bloody traces of death in his throat. He wiped his face, but remained in the tight space between the dresser and the bed. The spot had been one of Melly’s favorite places to huddle. It was nice. He'd never tried it before.

"What are you doing down there?" Dana asked, puzzled. 

Mulder sniffed and answered, "Hide and seek?"

"I win,” she informed him. “Did you have a bad dream?"

He nodded as he caught his breath.

"About Melissa or your mother?"

"Sarah."

"Tell me about your dream."

Mulder shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"That is a coward's excuse; saying no one can understand your pain. You have not cornered the market on pain, Mr. Mulder. Tell me about your dream."

"Are you calling me a coward?" he asked crossly, looking for something to argue about. "The Queen of Fine accuses me of cowardice because I don't want to talk about it?" 

"A good point," Dana responded. She gestured upward as if an idea struck her. "If I am ever drunk in front of our children on Christmas morning and wake from a nightmare crouched beside our dresser, I will talk about it."

He stared at her, bleary-eyed and head pounding. "What happened to 'biddable'? Didn't you promise you could be more biddable? Where is your docile femininity?"

"I lost it in the war. Tell me about your dream." 

He got to his feet and asked hesitantly, "Have you seen someone die?"

"Yes."

That was a stupid question. Living to fifty was old, and infant mortality so high doctors advised parents not to get too attached to their children until they passed their first birthday. Measles, mumps, smallpox, typhoid, cholera... Females who lived long enough to marry averaged half a dozen pregnancies. Most died in childbirth, along with their last child.

"No, I mean have you been alone and seen someone you care for die?” he clarified. “Slowly, painfully?"

"Yes, I have."

"Your sister. I forgot. Yes, of course you have." Mulder turned away and rinsed his face in the washbasin. 

"My parents would not let me near my sister for fear I would fall ill as well,” Dana’s voice informed him. “I once watched a man die from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Please do not tell me I cannot understand what it is like to watch a lover die."

He stopped mid-splash and turned. Water dripped on his shirt. People used 'lover' to mean 'suitor.' A romantic acquaintance, but not a sexual intimate. Every time he’d heard Dana use the word, though, she meant a bedmate. Dana did nothing erratically, including use the English language.

"In Ireland, after the famine, the English landlords realized land was more profitable for farming than grazing,” she explained. “They wanted to evict our entire village, though we paid the rents. We would not leave, so soldiers came and shot every man they could find and burned our homes. My father and brothers were at sea, but he was not. He did not go with the ship. I wanted him to stay with me, and he did. It took three days for him to die. He wanted me to leave, but I would not."

Mulder remembered to dry his face with a towel, and mumbled, "Oh."

Dana studied the floor uncomfortably. "I should not have told you. America is different. More formal. People here do not understand." 

"No," Mulder said quickly. He tossed the towel aside and guided her to the sofa. "Please tell me. I want to know."

He wanted to know only slightly less than he wanted to breathe. 

"He was a friend of my father's. A ship’s doctor, and a scientist. He would let me follow him around his laboratory and help with his experiments. My sister was the beauty, so I thought he tolerated me. I had no idea he loved me, but- I turned sixteen, and he asked if he could kiss me. I said yes. A few weeks later, he asked if I would stay with him that night... And I said yes."

"And?" Mulder asked quietly. 

"And it was nice," she answered softly, looking far away and into a life he hadn't shared. "We were waiting until there was a priest so we could marry in the church. And we hoped for a baby, but it did not happen."

"How long had you been with him before..."

"About two months."

"What was his name?"

"Oisin."

"Ush-een," he echoed softly. 

"I should not have told you," she repeated, looking embarrassed. "You knew I had been married before. I did not think it mattered."

As a gentleman, Mulder should be scandalized, but he wasn't. He couldn’t find scandal in two people loving each other. If anything, the glimpse of Dana’s past fascinated him. He got so few of them. 

"He mattered to you," he said. “This doctor you thought you would spend your life with.”

"He did matter to me." The embarrassment faded from her face, replaced by stubborn defiance. "I shot the soldier who shot Oisin. I found him in the forest. I lured him into the forest, rather. I aimed for his belly, but I hit him in the throat, so he died quickly. I had never fired a gun, but Oisin loaded it before he died. All I had to do was aim and pull the trigger. So I did. I buried my lover and shot the soldier and got on a ship with my family, bound for New York City."

Mulder blinked again. Jesus Christ, sometimes he felt hopelessly outmatched by this woman.

"For a long time, I believed Oisin died because of me, and I wished I had died with him. I thought I would never feel anything except the emptiness and guilt and ache of losing him. I was so young, and so alone. I thought my life was over. But it was not," she added softly.

"No," Mulder agreed, again unsure what else to say.

She started to get up - an awkward maneuver at present. Mulder offered a hand as a counterweight. 

As Dana straightened her dress and smoothed her hair in the mirror, Mulder studied her. He tried to find a sixteen-year-old girl underneath her calm, dignified exterior. He tried to envision her as a studious teenager, all blue eyes, auburn hair, and questions, but couldn't. But Dana wouldn't recognize the lanky, awkward fifteen-year-old boy who stood beside Sarah's grave for an hour, staring at it until his father persuaded him to leave.

*~*~*~*

Mulder and Sam could stay in Boston, and Dana could stay in DC until she and the baby could travel. That assumed Sam calmed down, but Mulder wasn't sure he would. Sam's pleas had a frighteningly dispassionate quality, as though his father leaving Dana was one solution, but Sam putting a gun to his own head seemed equally acceptable. Or Mulder could live with Dana in DC while Congress was in session and with Sam in Boston the remainder of the year. That scenario left Samuel alone in Boston for months. Also, Samuel had been specific; he wanted his father to divorce Dana, not live apart from her.

Most young men Samuel’s age attended boarding school, but Sam did poorly even in a local school, years ago. Samuel returned after his first day holding a handkerchief to his bloody nose and crying because the other boys called him a half-breed. It was Sam's last day at school and the beginning of the tutors. As interested as Samuel was in the music conservatory in London, Mulder doubted the wisdom of having an ocean between his son and home.

Or, Mulder could legally separate from Dana, and see her and the younger children without telling Sam, which begged for disaster. Even if Mulder wanted to divorce her, he had no grounds. And to answer Sam's question - no, he couldn't keep Emily, and Dana wouldn't let him. Dana still knew nothing of Waterston bigamy, but if she wanted to argue Emily wasn't Mulder's, Emily was a bastard. All the beauty and money in the world couldn't remove the stigma of a child being illegitimate.

There was no resolution to this impasse.

And there was Poppy’s daughter.

Mulder startled back to reality as Emily crawled on his lap and offered him her slice of apple. He bit off a tiny, fuzzy piece, and kissed the tip of her nose as he chewed, thanking her. Dana sat on the sofa, but Mulder, Sam, and Emily were on the floor beside the Christmas tree, opening the rest of the gifts. 

"Do you like it?" Mulder heard Sam ask, and saw Dana examining a wooden music box. She opened the lid; the box played the opening notes of a symphony Sam performed a few months ago.

"It is beautiful. Thank you, Samuel," she responded. "Which one is this?"

"Number 31. Mozart was twenty-two." Sam matched the melody on his guitar strings. "Mozart wrote to his father after the concert: about the musicians, the audience. He never mentioned his mother, who was with him, died."

"Oh," Dana responded. 

"You got Dana a present, but not me?" Mulder asked. 

Holding his guitar with one hand, Sam produced a slim package wrapped in silver paper and neatly tied with white ribbon.

"Really?" Mulder asked. He'd been joking. He thought of Sam as old enough to expect presents, but too young to think to give them. "What is it?" 

Sam shrugged. Mulder peeled the paper away to reveal a framed sketch of Dana. Not a figure drawing, but her heart-shaped face: all eyes and hair and lips. Samuel captured Dana looking up, her mouth open and her head tilted to the side as though he told her a whopping lie and she hadn't believed a word of it. He almost heard her exhale and say, "Mr. Mulder, I do not think..."

"Sammy, it's lovely." Mulder turned the frame around and tilted it for Dana to see. "Thank you."

He exhaled and let a small hope begin to grow. Maybe Sam's tearful episode the previous evening was youthful moodiness gone too far. He and Dana must have had a minor disagreement and Sam had over-reacted. It would blow over.

"Open Father's," Sam said. He passed Dana a big box hidden behind the tree. "It's a dress."

"A dress?" she echoed skeptically. "From where? The Baltimore Tent & Awning Company?"

"Open it," Sam urged. "It cost five hundred dollars." 

"Wait, Sammy, no- Dana-" Mulder tried to intervene. Sam helped choose the dress and saw it when it arrived from Paris, but Samuel didn't know what went with it.

Dana lifted the lid, and gasped at the evening gown nestled in the tissue. It was deep scarlet, trimmed at the neck, sleeves, and hem with delicate lace the color of old gold. The neckline was cut low enough to make men choke on their drinks and tapered to a tiny waist before blossoming out again. She let the box fall away. Twenty yards of blood-red silk cascaded over her empire-waist mourning dress. 

"Oh my God," she said breathlessly. "This is beautiful. I have never seen anything like it. Mulder..."

"Yes?" he asked innocently. 

"This is so beautiful, but where will I wear it? This is a society girl’s dress. I am married with three children. I cannot wear this."

"Look in the bottom of the box."

While girls wore pastels, married women wore sedate colors: dark blue, brown, gray, violet. Melly liked pink, but that was Melly. Even in fashionable cities like New Orleans and New York, a lady who wore scarlet was no lady. England was as conservative, but not France.

"The Paris opera," Mulder translated as Dana stared at the tickets. "Faust. You, me, and Sammy: this time next year. You'll be one of the more modestly dressed women."

She smiled again and leaned forward. He leaned back, tilted his face upward, and their lips met lightly. She whispered, "What if I look like this again next year?" 

"You won't," he whispered back. 

Two babies in two years was enough for a long time. He planned, once Harvey was born, to learn about prophylaxis. Or something. Or, they could let his fifteen-year-old son sleep between them and avoid contraception all together.

Realizing they'd kissed in front of Sam, Mulder glanced at his son for any reaction - good or bad - but the boy was gone. Samuel must have realized what the gift implied. His father had planned to be with Dana in a year. The new guitar leaned against the wall, and Sam's footsteps headed toward the kitchen with Grace's claws clicking after him.

*~*~*~*

Sam opened the back door. Mulder shoved it closed again, keeping his hand against it.

"I wasn't running away," Sam said earnestly.

"Explain this to me, Sammy, because I'm a confused. Yesterday, out of the blue, Dana was your wicked stepmother. Then you're giving her Christmas presents. Now you can't stand to be in the same room with us?"

The shrugging started. Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration. 

"You seem to forget to hate Dana. Has Poppy said something to you? Has she put some idea into your head about Dana?"

Sam studied the kitchen floor and said, "No," unconvincingly.

"If you want to know, ask and I'll tell you the truth, but I can't fix problems I don't know. If it's not Poppy - if me being remarried is too much and it takes Dana and I living apart for a while, we will. You have to give me time, though. I thought we had an understanding. As soon as the baby's born and Dana's safe, she and I will talk about it and she'll understand-"

"No!"

"No, what? No, don't talk to her? Do you expect me to say I'm leaving her, take the baby, and walk out without giving her a reason? You're the reason, Sammy. You are the only reason. I love Dana. Do you understand?"

Sam looked up. "You wouldn't take Emmy?"

"No." 

“Because, because,” Samuel watched the floor again. “Because Emily was coming before you married Dana?”

Mulder debated for three heartbeats, but Sam beat Dana at keeping secrets. "No. Sam, I met Dana days before Emily was born, and married Dana a few months after. I love Emily and I think of her as my child," he explained, "but in court, the judge would see her as Dana's daughter, not mine."

"Oh."

"Dana didn’t do anything wrong, Sammy, and neither did I. We never lied to anyone, but people assumed... Once they did, and once I found out a few things, I’d rather everyone think badly of me than correct their assumptions."

"Oh."

Mulder would give any amount of money for Samuel to do something besides shrug and mumble “oh.” Even a temper tantrum would be preferable.

"Sam, do you understand what I'm telling you? If you want Emmy with us, Dana has to stay too. Think of all that's happened - Grandmother dying, a baby coming, you being home again – and whether Dana's the problem."

No response.

"Is it the baby? Do you look at Dana and see your mother and worry? I'm scared to death too but upsetting Dana will make it worse."

No response.

"Dana likes you. She takes care of you. Do you realize how much this will hurt her? Did you hear her say she's married with three children? Count them: Emily, Harvey, and you. She cares about you, Sam, and I want us to be a family."

Mulder wanted to shake Sam and shout Dana cared for him a hundred times more than his mother had. Dana found time to listen to a song or look at a sketch, she fixed Sam’s eggs the way he liked them, and so far, Dana hadn't tried to kill him.

Mulder paused, stunned such a traitorous thought had run through his brain. He must have a chink in his armor.

"I do like her," Sam mumbled. 

"What is it," Mulder exploded. "What? Why are you doing this?"

Mulder got a response. Sam slid down the wall, wrapped his arms around his knees, dropped his head, and started to sob.

"Oh, Sammy... God, I'm sorry." Mulder squatted beside him, trying to get him to look up. "Please talk to me. Tell me what's wrong. Please."

Grace wagged encouragingly as Dana waddled in. Dana appraised the situation unhappily. In a maneuver making a contortionist proud, she lowered herself to the floor so she sat in front of the kitchen table and a few feet from Sam.

"I am at your mercy," she said softly. "If you or your father do not help me up, I am down here for good."

That got a nod from Sam, but not a laugh. She motioned for Mulder, who loomed over his son, to move away.

"Take a few deep breaths, Samuel. Calm down. No one is angry with you. You know a holiday cannot pass without your father making a scene."

She was teasing, but Mulder furrowed his brow, silently taking objection. Again, she gestured for him to be quiet.

Sam's head moved an inch, and between sobs he choked, "Gonna. Take. Grace. Out. He had - go out."

"All right," she said easily, as Mulder's stomach tightened. "Your father can take him out. Go ahead, Mr. Mulder."

"The hell I will," he mouthed at her.

Dana clenched her teeth and pointed sternly toward the door. 

Five minutes later, Mulder slouched around the backyard, face still hot, nose cold. He held the end of a leash while Grace searched for the perfect place to lift his leg.

*~*~*~*

He and Dana went to bed early because they ran out of anything else to do - except speak to each other, of course. When they first married, they did that all the time, but now Mulder lay on the sofa, listening to Dana toss and turn in the bed. He kept turning the page of his book but realizing he hadn't read it.

"Are you all right?" He gave up on the author's ability to hold his interest and sat up. "Is Harvey all right?"

"We are both restless. I cannot get comfortable."

Mulder put his book aside and stole to the bed. He sat on the mattress beside her, fiddling with the blankets and trying to think of something neutral to say. The doctors warned not to upset women in the family way. People told of pregnant ladies being frightened by monkeys or horses and having a deformed child resembling that animal. Or miscarrying or going into labor because they saw or heard something shocking. Many wealthy women spent their entire pregnancy in bed, isolated from the world, to be careful.

Dana cooked three meals, washed dishes, swept the floor, soothed Sam, ignored Mulder's remorseful brooding, and rescued Emily's new kitten after Emmy put it in the dumbwaiter for safekeeping. Give Dana another few hours and she could reform the corrupt Freemen's Bureau, persuade Napoleon III to withdraw his troops from Mexico, and edit Tolstoy for brevity.

Being married to Dana would be easier if she was less resilient. He knew how to deal with fragile women, but he had no experience with one his equal.

Damn it, there was another chink.

"What about Howard?" Mulder asked. He put a hand on her belly. A tiny foot pressed back, disliking the disturbance. "That's a good, Biblical name."

"Biblical?" Dana asked, rearranging the pillows in an effort to get comfortable.

"God's name. 'Our father, who art in Heaven, Howard be thy name.' Howard."

He grinned, waiting for her to laugh. Maybe it wasn't funny, or the pun didn't translate well, or she was exhausted, but she didn't.

"What if your Howard or Harvey is a girl?"

"Drucilla," he drawled in a strong southern accent, still trying to get her to smile. "Drucilla Eugenia Annabelle Sue."

"Never mind. I will have a boy."

"If he or she would make an appearance in the next few days, he can be named anything you want."

She nodded in agreement, closing her eyes. Mulder pressed gently on her abdomen, feeling. By the doctor's estimate this evening, she was a week overdue. Given the size of the baby in relation to the size of Dana, the doctor offered to break her water, which he said would hurry the baby along and sounded like a brilliant idea to Mulder. Dana mentioned if the baby refused to hurry along, she would die – and the idea stopped sounding so brilliant. So they waited. Nervously on Mulder’s part, miserably on Dana's.

"Come out, little guy," Mulder down and told the belly. "It's a great big world out here." 

He waited for a few seconds, but the belly stayed firmly in place. 

Mulder hesitated, and said calmly, "Dana, I'm taking Sam to Boston with me. He and I talked last night. I think a change of scenery might be good for him, and you would have one less person to keep up with."

"All right. Samuel likes spending time with you."

"It doesn't show." 

"He does."

He flopped down, jarring the bed and the belly, and stared at the ceiling. He should get Sam to paint a mural up there.

"Poppy won't be spending the night anymore. I spoke to her this morning. I will not have her upsetting you or Sam. If she’ll mind her manners, she can stay on as housekeeper until we get settled in Boston, and then - We’ll see," he informed Dana. Mulder chose his words carefully so they were at least half-truths. "I'll arrange for Emily's nursemaid to be here, and a wet nurse for the baby. Do you know a midwife who can stay with you for a few weeks? Isn’t your mother a midwife?"

He tried to sneak it in as she fell asleep: a wet nurse and a live-in midwife - namely her mother - but Dana asked, "Is Poppy going with you?"

"I don't know. I hadn't considered it."

"Would Sadie's father mind?"

"Poppy and Alex had a falling out." As he spoke, he felt glad he wasn't looking Dana in the face. "I'll see what Sam wants. I'm not pleased with Poppy, but if Samuel wants her, I suppose she could go to Boston. Mother's Georgetown housekeeper could come here."

"Can Poppy remain in Boston and I remain here?" she mumbled sleepily.

"I have considered that," he answered. "Do you despise her that much?"

"No, Mr. Mulder. I adore a woman who wishes me dead, and tells the whole city my husband is in love with her and fathered her daughter.”

He knew that was sarcasm, so he planned to chuckle. The sound came out sounding like someone had their hand around his testicles and squeezed progressively tighter.

Dana opened her eyes. 

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Can I get you anything? A drink of water? Another blanket? Rub your back? Anything? You look so uncomfortable."

"Can you get this baby to come any sooner?"

"I'll see what I can do." Mulder scooted down so he was eye level with the belly. "Boo," he said loudly.

Dana's abdomen jiggled as she laughed. "I do not think this will work."

"Boo, damn it!"

*~*~*~*

The next day, Mulder didn't go to work. Rather, he made a dozen trips between work and home. Mulder averaged twenty minutes at the newspaper before he contrived some reason to be home. Then, he'd spend ten minutes circling the building, looking for someone to annoy, before his employees complained to Byers or Frohike. They'd suggest Mulder check on Dana, diplomatically making it sound like their idea. By mid-afternoon, even his eight-year-old newsboys begged Mulder to go home. And stay there. 

"Did you lose another button?" Dana asked as Mulder lurked in the library doorway. Rather than sit, she stood and leaned over to write, recording how much cash she gave the maid to go to the store. Dana rattled off a shopping list, a few instructions, and handed over the money. 

"No," Mulder responded.

"Are you still hungry?" she asked. 

Dana straightened, massaging her lower back. Another maid - the one Sam had kissed - appeared with one of Mulder's winter coats. Dana sent her upstairs again, telling her it was the wrong one.

"No," Mulder repeated. He had two breakfasts, a lunch, and a few snacks, most surreptitious fed to Grace beneath the table.

"Did you forget another handkerchief?" 

"No."

A crew of men packed crates to go to Boston, and asked if Dana was ready for them in the library. Dana told them to go ahead, and she made her way through the front hall with Mulder at her heels. 

The pretty young maid returned with one of Mulder's winter coats. Dana instructed her to take it and one of Sam's to the tailor and have them double-lined against the Boston winter. Another maid had a question about the grocery list. Emily's nursemaid came to report Emily wouldn't take a nap. Sam wandered in with his new guitar. They encircled Dana, all wanting her attention at once.

"Where is Poppy?" Mulder demanded, trying to be heard amid the chaos. "Why isn't she doing this?"

"Poppy seems to be taking the day off," Dana answered, and in rapid succession ordered, "Get ten pounds, if they have it. Bring Emily downstairs and I will rock her. Samuel, a minute. I know I keep saying that, but..." She turned to Mulder and guessed, "Do you have another splinter? Find a new thread for me to trim? Forget your umbrella again?"

Mulder looked sheepish. Six inches of snow blanket the ground, and he saw no sign of it letting up. Forgetting his umbrella wasn’t one of his more believable excuses for coming home.

"What do you mean 'Poppy's taking the day off?' You mean she hasn't been here all day? Why didn't you say something? You're supposed to be resting."

Dana paused. She pushed her fists into the small of her back and looked at him irritably. In the library behind her, hammers pounded as the packing crates were sealed, then carried to the wagons outside. The back door banged twice, once as the coats left for the tailor and once as the other maid left to buy ten pounds of something - dynamite for all Mulder knew. Wednesday was cleaning day, so anyone not packing or running errands polished, scrubbed, and dusted. Emily whimpered as her nursemaid brought her downstairs, and Sam strummed his guitar idly and waited his turn. Grace guarded Sam, eyeing the movers suspiciously. Emily's new kitten perched on the banister, loudly complaining to be fed. Dana exhaled and tilted her head from side to side, stretching her neck. "What makes you think I am not resting?"

"Why isn't Poppy here?"

Dana tilted her palms upward, indicating she didn't know, and turned back to the library. Grace, the kitten, Sam, Emily's nursemaid, Emily, and Mulder followed. "She did not come today. I assumed you told her it was all right."

"Why would I tell her that?" They had packers packing, movers moving, ten-thousand square feet of house to be cleaned, two children, and Dana looked like she smuggled a watermelon under the front of her dress.

"Dana-" Samuel tried again, guitar poised.

"I know. I will. I want to hear it. In a-" She turned and tried to step over Grace. Mulder saw her lose her balance, but stood too far away to catch her. He started toward her, his hand outstretched. He winced as Dana landed hard on her bottom amid the packing crates.

"Jesus, Dana," Mulder gasped. Everyone who wasn't in the library came running. "Shit. Are you all right?"

Grace whimpered and hid under Mulder's desk, peeking out remorsefully.

After a second, Dana exhaled. She looked at the faces above her like she wished she had a bullet for each one. She pushed up to sitting, supporting her weight on her hands, and ordered the maids and packers to find someplace else to be. They wisely retreated to the other side of the room to gawk and mutter among themselves.

Mulder knelt on the rug and started to pick her up, saying he would take her to bed. Dana protested indignantly until Mulder set her on her feet. She adjusted her dress and rubbed her hip as he hovered, not sure how to help. "Go get the doctor," Mulder ordered Sam.

Samuel nodded and started to leave.

"No, Sam - don't. I am fine," Dana said angrily. "I need an extra set of hands, not a doctor. Mr. Mulder, I will give you whatever you want if you will please go back to work and stay there." 

"You should have a doctor," Mulder argued.

"He has been here twice today," she hissed in his ear. "That doctor has seen more of me than you have."

"Will you at least lie down? I can take care of this." Dana looked like she might relent, so Mulder told Sam, "Take a buggy, find Grandmother's housekeeper, and bring her back. I have no idea where Poppy is, but if you see her, tell her I want her here. Then get the doctor. If you're not back in an hour, I'm coming after you," he added. "You, pack something," he ordered the crowd congregated in one corner. "And you - you go clean something. There, Dana, see? All taken care of."

"I will bask in the leisure," she responded sarcastically. 

"Bask in bed. I'll help you upstairs."

"Why? I cannot sleep."

Emily went from whimpering to full-blown squalling, too tired to know what she wanted but certain she wasn't getting it. The hammers started pounding again, sounding like they evened old scores against all ten-penny nails. Sam returned to say his favorite coat was missing, and the kitten still wanted fed.

“At least try,” Mulder urged. 

Dana crossed her arms defiantly. 

Mulder had never spanked anyone, but he still thought a riding crop properly applied to Dana’s lovely backside might promote some feminine biddableness. 

“Go upstairs and lie down,” he ordered forcefully. “I will take the day off from work so you can rest.”

Arms still crossed, Dana looked at him a long moment, probably not paralyzed by fear. "I am taking a bath," she announced. "A long, hot bath."

"A bath?" Mulder echoed. He took Emily in a futile attempt to comfort her. 

"A bath," she repeated, smiling as though she could taste it on her lips. "Since you are home to take care of everything, Mr. Mulder, I will be in the bathtub. Don't call me unless the roof falls in."

*~*~*~*

Filled to the top, the tub held eighty-two gallons of water - a fact Poppy reminded him of every time someone wanted a bath. Since Mulder had been one of the four men who carried it in the house, he remembered it weighted five hundred pounds and hurt like hell if dropped on a toe. The bathtub was a birthday present for Melissa, but he no longer recalled which birthday. That bothered him. Except for Sam, paintings, and a collection of photographs, memories were all he had. Forgetting Melissa failed her all over again.

Like Sam, Melissa wasn’t a reader, so it surprised Mulder she met him at the door with a newspaper. "They're all the rage in Philadelphia," she’d said excitedly, showing him the article. "It could be a birthday present."

He'd shrugged off his coat, loosened his cravat, and looked over her shoulder, scanning the page. "But it's not my birthday, honey. What would I do with that thing? Stock it with trout and start my own fishing hole?"

Melissa turned to look at him uncertainly. "No, it's for bathing. See." She pointed. "It's installed."

"I suppose I'm the one who gets to install it?"

She'd blinked those big brown eyes at him.

"You want to bathe with trout?" he teased. "It's all the rage to bathe with fish? You could do that in the Washington Canal. Do Philadelphia men like their women to smell like a pond?"

Her forehead started to crinkle. "It's not for fish, Fox. It's for people. It's an installed bathtub for people."

He kissed her earlobe playfully. "Yes, honey, I know it's a bathtub for people. It's a huge bathtub. Are you sure it's what you want? You could drown in that thing."

"Please," she'd pleaded.

"All right," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Maybe it's meant to for two people. A two-person tub."

Melissa had looked down, her lips moving as she slowly reread the newsprint. "No, I don't think it said anything about two people."

A drop of warm water hit his cheek, startling him. 

"Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked, sounding like she repeated his name for the third or fourth time. 

"Sorry," he apologized, and helped Dana pull her dress over her head. The loose chemise followed. Mulder steadied Dana as she stepped over the side of the bathtub and sank into the steaming water. She leaned back and closed her eyes. An orgasmic sigh of pleasure rumbled from deep in her throat.

Mulder pulled a low stool beside the bathtub and sat, propping his hands on the edge and his chin on his hands.

Dana had French-milled soaps and salts and fancy oils, but she seemed happy to soak. The clear water reached her chest, lapping against her swollen breasts and glistening on her shoulders. Below the surface, her belly and legs looked distorted, and patterned with orange and yellow as the lamplight refracted through the water.

"I can do this part without supervision," she murmured, not opening her eyes.

"I'll stay just in case."

"Are you staring at me?" 

"Probably," he admitted. 

Of all the horrible images stored in his mind - of young men in war, and innocents in death - the worst was Melissa's gray face as he pulled her out of the bloody water. The bath kept her body warm, and he'd carried her upstairs to their bed, certain she was alive despite the lack of a pulse. If he wrapped her in a blanket and kept her warm until Sam returned with the doctor, she'd be fine.

"Do not make jokes about my navel," Dana requested.

"I wouldn't think of it," he heard himself answer automatically. 

When they'd brought the coffin to the house, the undertaker asked him to choose a dress to bury Melissa in. Mulder sat on the porch, numbly rubbing a scuffed place on his boot. The undertaker rephrased the question, asking which dress was Melly’s favorite. Mulder had shown him, but said it wouldn't fit. None of her favorites fit at seven months pregnant. If they cut it down the back, the undertaker said, it would fit, and no one would know. The long sleeves were good; those and gloves would cover the slashes on her wrists. No one would know. 

Mulder trailed his fingertips across the surface, watching the delicate ripples. Dana raised one hand out of the water and cupped her hot palm against his cheek. "I did not think," she said softly. "Of Melissa. I did not mean to upset you."

He shrugged one shoulder, unwilling to answer. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, hammers pounded, plates clinked as they got dried and put away, and indistinct voices chattered. Emily, placated with a cup of milk, settled down for a while, but started fussing again. She patted the door, whimpering.

"Bat," Emily informed Mulder as he let her in. 

"Mommy's taking a bath," he answered, following her back to the tub. Dana dropped her hand over the side, toying with Emily's blonde curls.

"Me bat," she requested. Emily wiggled out of her diaper and pulled at her dress. "Mama? Bat? Up?"

"Come here, baby girl," Dana responded. Dana raised her arms as Mulder lifted the toddler in. Emily rested her head on her mother's shoulder and, buoyed by the water, nestled safely between Dana's left arm and body. "Are you sleepy?"

"No 'teepee," Emily said unconvincingly, her eyelids getting lower. "Dahdah?" she asked. "Dahdah bat?"

Mulder resumed his seat beside the bathtub, leaning on the edge. "No, Dahdah's not getting in. Dahdah's watching his precious girls."

Dana closed her eyes again, stroking Emily's bare back. She looked so peaceful. It was easy to forget the rest of the world waited a dozen feet away. 

He floated a sponge like a boat, making journeys up and down the tub until it eventually took on water and sank. He rolled up his sleeves and washed her calves and feet, soaping each wrinkled toe and kissing it once it was clean. She gave him one arm, keeping the other around Emily, who was fast asleep. In slow, lazy circles, he washed her breasts, her swollen belly, and deep under the water, brushed against the auburn curls at the apex of her thighs.

"What if I take Emmy to the nursery, help you up, and take you upstairs? I'd like to get you in bed one way or the other, and I think desperate times call for desperate measures."

She half-opened her eyes, as if she thought he might be joking. "I am not sure we should." she said.

"I didn't say we were going to. I want you to relax and rest. Let me use my imagination. Or hands. Or mouth," he whispered, and she bit her lower lip. Until Sam returned, that was a favorite game - promising in the morning what they'd do in bed that night. They hadn't done all of it, but he'd spend many pleasant afternoons anticipating. 

He gathered up Emily, wrapped her in a thick towel, and held her against his shoulder. Mulder leaned down to kiss Dana before he left, and closed the bathroom door after him.

Much to his relief, his mother's housekeeper stood in the kitchen. She stirred a pot and warmed a stack of towels and blankets on the open oven door. As she greeted him, she draped a blanket over Emily, who sighed happily in her sleep.

"Do whatever looks like it needs done, Rebekah," Mulder told her, tucking the blanket tightly around Emily. "What happened to the movers?" he asked, realizing the hammering had stopped.

"I sent them away so Little Miss could take her nap. You and Mr. Sam can manage in Boston if your books and accordion are a few days late. Whoever the yowling ball of fur belongs to, it's fed. We're having mutton for dinner; I sent a maid to the butcher shop. Mr. Sam's bringing the doctor to check Miss Dana, and if you'll bring her wrapper, I'll warm it. I added wood to the fire in the master bedroom, but we can't have her or the baby catching a chill on the way there."

"Bless you, 'Bekah," Mulder responded thankfully. 

If he had to guess Rebekah’s age, he'd say late fifties, but because he remembered her being an adult when he was small. Rebekah was two generations removed from Ireland, and well-distilled into working-class Boston society. She was broad across the cheekbones and hips, with a ruddy complexion and large, pendulous breasts. Her curly hair was a shade lighter than Dana's, the color called red on poor women and light auburn on the wealthy. She raised her babies, Mulder, the Kavanaugh girls and, until Mulder and Melissa had a home of their own, supervised Poppy with Sam. She knew everything - good or bad - happening in Washington, never broke a confidence, and kept a hickory switch beside the stove both Mulder and Sam's backsides had been acquainted with. 

Mulder felt so happy to see her he could have kissed her.

"Poppy asked to speak to you," Rebekah added with sudden disdain.

"Where is she?"

"Here," Poppy answered. She entered the kitchen carrying a carpetbag and leading Sadie. "We're here." 

"Rebekah, give us a minute please," he requested and, though he felt her disapproval, Rebekah moved the pot off the stove and left quietly. "I assume you spent the day looking for a flat?” Mulder said, addressing Poppy. “In the future, I want notice if you're not going to show up for work. I don't appreciate you leaving Dana high and dry. Don't let that happen again."

"I come to tell you I'm leaving, Fox," she said. "We're leaving. Alex is going up north, and he asked us to go with him. I just come to tell you."

"You're what?" he said in disbelief. She was minding her manners, but slurring her words, and he wondered if she’d been drinking. "Yesterday he was your archenemy and you wouldn't let Sadie near him. Now you're running away with him? You’re walking out on Samuel?"

"I'm not running away. Alex wants us."

The words “and you don't,” hung unsaid in the air.

"He can't support you. As far as I know, Alex has no income except whatever Spender's giving him. Whatever he's promised you-"

"He promised Sadie can go to school."

"She can go to school here," Mulder argued.

"To a white school. A boarding school."

He blinked. Poppy was an octoroon, one-eighth Negro, with a strong influence of Cherokee - light-skinned and dark-eyed with silky black hair; despite the resemblance to her half-sisters, she looked too exotic to be mistaken for white. The laws varied, but any person one-sixteenth or one thirty-second Negro was considered Negro. Proper society used the one-drop rule; any black ancestor, not matter how removed, and the child was black. To a lesser degree, the rule applied any non-European ethnicity, but nothing stigmatized a child more - especially a pretty girl looking to marry well - than an African skeleton in the family closet.

"We'd start over. A new place. No one would know," she said. Mulder detected a hint of desperation in her voice. He’d heard stories of pretty girls who succeeded in passing as white, along with stories of what happened to women found out by their husbands. The lucky ones got thrown out on the street to beg or prostitute themselves. The unlucky ones were beaten to death or hanged.

"Alex or no Alex, that's a bad idea, Poppy. You aren't thinking. What will you say? You're her maid, not her mother? You expect her to live a lie? Do you realize what will happen if someone figures out the truth? Why would you risk that?"

"She's not gonna be an ignorant maid all her life," Poppy responded. "Or some white man's plaything. I explained what happened with you to Alex and he understands."

Mulder leaned back against the kitchen table, still holding Emily as she slept. "Explain it to me so I can understand, too." 

Poppy bent to fasten Sadie's coat and didn't answer him. Her fingers wouldn't cooperate, and she struggled to get the buttons through the holes. She had been drinking, he decided. Gin, probably, since he hadn't smelled alcohol on her breath.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," he said, "but you're playing a dangerous game, Poppy. I think you're overestimating your hand. What happened in Louisville - if it happened - had nothing to do with me wanting or loving you. I thought you were Melissa or Sarah, or I acted on instinct. There's no way I forced or seduced you, because I was too weak to move. If it happened... You can't imagine how that makes me feel."

"Oh yes, I can," she responded, looking up and staring daggers through him. 

"It doesn't change my responsibility, though. Whether Sadie's my daughter or Melissa's niece, I'll take care of her. And you. All I want is the truth."

She stood up and took Sadie's hand. "Goodbye, Fox. Take care of my Sam. Take care of yourself."

He moved quickly, placing himself between her and the door.

"You're not taking her. Not with Alex. He'll get bored with you or find a woman with more to offer, and you and Sadie will end up in the gutter."

"What are you going to do?" she countered coolly. "Keep her here? Have her share a nursemaid with Emily? How would you explain having a bastard nigger daughter to your precious Dana?"

"Don't underestimate me, Poppy. Don't underestimate Dana. How do you know I haven't told her?"

She recoiled, but found another unprotected place to strike. "She's not yours," she said evenly, her eyes narrowing. "She could be, but she's not yours any more than Sam is."

It was a blessing he held Emily, because if he had his hands free, whether she was tipsy or not, he would have hurt her. Instead, he demanded, "Did you say that to Sam? Did you? Is that what's wrong with him?"

"No, of course I didn't tell him," she said, but he couldn't tell if she lied or not, or if he was supposed to think she lied or not. This woman wasn't the Poppy he knew. It wasn't the alcohol. It was as if she'd become a different person, but in that moment, the realization didn't make him hate her any less.

"Did you put Melissa up to it? You had to know what was happening, and she would have done whatever you told her to. Did you?" he demanded. "Did you suspect she was with child and put her up to seducing me?" 

"Of course not, Fox," she responded in the same vaguely condescending tone. "She must have wanted you."

"Get out!" he ordered. He moved so she could open the door. She didn't leave fast, so he jerked it open. The icy wind scattered snow over his boots and against his damp forearms. "Get the hell out." 

Poppy picked up her daughter and satchel, and stepped into the storm, leaving without a backward glance.

Mulder remembered to close the door.

"Let her go, Fox," Rebekah advised, waddling in and taking Emily from him. "You made a mistake. Let it go. Miss Melly's kin or not, there's nothing about that woman worth a second thought."

"How much did you hear?"

"More than I intended, and nothing I hadn't heard before. Let her go.”

“She, she took Sadie. She didn’t say goodbye to Sam.”

“Let her go,” Rebekah advised a third time. “Were you going to bring me Miss Dana's wrapper?"

Dana. Mulder exhaled. He'd forgotten about Dana.

Dana still soaked with her eyes closed as he entered the bathroom. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward him. "Did Emily wake up?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized. Mulder helped her up and carefully out of the bathtub. "No. No, she didn't wake up." He wrapped a warm blanket around her before she had a chance to shiver. "Rebekah's here. Mother's housekeeper, she has Emmy."

"Good," Dana responded. She looked up at him and licked her lips. She kissed the underside of his jaw and down his neck to his open shirt collar. "You brought blankets. Did you ever fix the lock on this door?"

"I don't remember," he answered. She picked up where they left off, somewhere between five minutes and a hundred years ago. "Dana, I- I- This isn’t a good idea," he said, stepping back.

His skin felt warm and damp from hers, and he rubbed his throat nervously. Dana nodded. She reached for her wrapper, pulling the fabric around her before she let the blanket fall to the floor. 

"It seemed like a better idea before I stood up," she said, looking awkward. She curved her arm around her belly. 

"I do love you," he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She smiled sadly and nodded.

He tried to think of some way to explain he didn't find her repulsive - he wanted to climb into the bath and scrub off three layers of skin before he touched her again.

Mulder helped Dana upstairs and into bed and tucked the covers around her. He pulled off his boots and lay down beside her. He felt as tired as she looked.

"I forgot," he said, as he lay on his back, watching the ceiling. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a folded carnival flier. "Melvin Frohike sent this for you. The Feejee Mermaid," he explained, showing her. "P.T. Barnum’s exhibiting it. It's half fish, half monkey. Very shocking. A horrific abomination of nature. No lady in a delicate condition is allowed in the tent to see it. Sure to bring on labor.” He paused. “Anything?"

She waited a bit, and shook her head, looking bemused. "Thank you for trying, though."

"I am trying, Dana. Don't give up on me. I'm not as hopeless as I seem."

"I will speak to Saint Tomas about you," she teased, and turned her head to look at him. "He is the patron saint of doubters."

"Doubting Thomas," he responded, considering. "Patron of the blind, stonemasons, theologians, mad dogs, hemorrhoids, and skeptics."

"He is a busy saint. The last step before Saint Jude of lost causes."

She rested her hands on her belly. He rolled toward her and put his hand over hers.

"Thomas?" he asked. 

"Tomas," she agreed.

*~*~*~*

The universe hated him. 1866 was the year to smite Fox Mulder, and Fate hurried to get it all in before December ended. Mother Nature seemed to bear Mulder a personal grudge, as well.

"Maybe you and Sam should catch the earlier train," Dana suggested as she looked out the bedroom window. 

For once, the street in front of the house was silent, a smooth expanse of white. It seldom snowed more than a couple of inches in Washington, so few people had horse-drawn sleighs. Now, a trio of boys worked on a snow fort, but most families stayed huddled around their hearths, sipping hot cider and waiting out the storm. 

Mulder handed Dana another shirt, and she placed it in the leather satchel, along with a few sets of clean socks and underwear.

"I'm thinking about it," he answered, coming to look over her shoulder. "There's no sense cutting it any closer than we have to, and the storm's going to slow the train down. We'll have to walk to the station. The streetcars aren't running, and I'm not dragging anyone out in this to bring our horses back if we ride."

The windowpane fogged. Mulder wiped it clear with his hand, still considering. 

"Yes, I think we'll leave. I'll have Rebekah pack us a snack, and we'll bundle up and get going. Will you be all right?"

Dana didn’t answer, so he glanced down. She had braced her hands against the windowsill and leaned forward.

"Dana?"

She looked up, gritting her teeth and breathing shallowly.

"Another contraction?"

She nodded.

"Two in one hour."

Another silent, tense nod, indicating her lack of gratitude to him for keeping track.

"Does it hurt?" he asked uncertainly. Mulder made the same face he did if someone mentioned castration or syphilitic lesions.

"Yes, it hurts," she said though clenched teeth, and closed her eyes like she could block out the pain. "Oh God, it hurts."

"I'm sorry," he said in his tiniest, sorriest voice. "I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

He stepped toward her. The floor was wet. A puddle of fluid seeped from underneath her robe, punctuated with swirls of blood and something greenish-black.

"Get the doctor?" he asked.

She shook her head. Dana took a deep breath. "Help me to bed first," she reminded him, standing up straighter.

He thanked God Dana remembered; Mulder would have left her standing there.

"Do you want another nightgown first?" 

She nodded. Dana raised her arms so he could strip off her ruined robe and gown and replace it with a clean one. He threw the soiled clothes at the puddle and put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm going to pick you up. All right?"

She nodded, and let him carry her to the bed. As he laid her down, Rebekah knocked and entered, bringing Dana's lunch tray so she wouldn't have to tackle the stairs. Samuel followed, tagging after Rebekah as easily as he'd tagged after Poppy.

"I think it's time," Mulder said, putting a stack of pillows behind Dana. "Sammy, wait in the hall. I'll be right there." 

"Dana?" 

"It is all right, Samuel," Dana responded. "The baby is coming."

"Should I get the doctor?" his son asked.

"Can you?" Mulder asked. He dreaded leaving Dana to go himself. "Can you find the doctor and come right back? You won't run off?"

"I'll come right back," Sam promised.

*~*~*~*

Dana wasn't normally restless, but she couldn't seem to get comfortable for more than a few seconds. Instead of staying in bed, Mulder watched her pace as long as she was able. She stood and leaned forward, bracing her hands on the footboard. She knelt on all fours, shifted to her back again, rolled side to side, and to her back, which was how Rebekah found her when she returned with clean towels and a basin of water.

"How far apart?"

"Five minutes," Mulder answered.

"Hard?"

He nodded. He could feel the womb becoming as hard as rock beneath his hand on her abdomen and softening again. As the contraction passed, he wiped her forehead, which helped no one but gave him something to do. Mulder shouldn't even be with her, but he dared anyone to tell him to leave.

"It hurts in my back," Dana said tiredly, looking like she might cry. "It should not hurt in my back."

"The doctor's coming," he assured her. "Try to rest until the next pain." He looked at Rebekah, at the clock, and asked tersely, "Where is Sam? It's been two hours."

The snowdrifts hit a man mid-thigh, and God knew where the doctor might be.

Dana rolled toward Mulder so Rebekah could replace the towel under her hips. Mulder watched Dana's face, but noticed a pause before Rebekah told her to roll back. Rebekah dropped the soiled towel in the basket beside the bed. Mulder saw blood on it.

He didn't remember blood before Emily’s birth. After, yes, but not before.

"Ma'am, I'm no doctor," Rebekah said quietly, "but I have five babies of my own, and I was there when this one-" she nodded to Mulder, "Was born. Will you let me check?"

Dana nodded. Mulder got up to lock the door. Most of the staff hadn't made it to work because of the storm, but Emily's nursemaid was in the house, along with the cook. Mulder faced away from the bed, listening to the sheets rustling and limbs moving. He turned when Rebekah called for him.

Dana lay on her back, covered with a sheet.

"The baby's head is here," Rebekah told him, putting her hand high on Dana's belly. "He hasn't turned. The womb is three fingers open. This baby's big and coming fast. We need a doctor," she said, speaking softly but gravely. "Once she starts to push..." She shook her head.

"Sam went to get the doctor," Mulder answered, though Rebekah knew. "He should be back any minute."

"I'll stay with Mrs. Mulder while you go," Rebekah responded. She wiped her other hand on a towel, leaving more smears of blood. "Find anyone you can. Hurry."

"Mulder," Dana mumbled weakly, and reached for Mulder’s hand.

"I'm gonna find a doctor," he assured her, finding an encouraging smile, then gnawing his chapped lips. "I'll be back."

She nodded again, letting go of his hand.

*~*~*~*

As cold and wet and frightened as Mulder was, he exhaled at Aramis and the doctor's gelding in the stable. The horses’ sides still heaved and snow caked their tails. Sam made it back with a doctor before Mulder. The doctor's wife said her husband was either at the Lowell's lancing a boil or McCutcheon's treating rheumatism. She said Sam rode to the Lowell's, so Mulder turned his horse toward rheumatism - and came up with nothing except an old man who wanted to talk about his tricky hip. He'd pounded on every doctor's door he knew. If Sam hadn't been successful, Mulder planned to head for either the military hospital or the insane asylum and kidnap a doctor at gunpoint.

He stopped at the house long enough to get his gun and make sure Dana still needed a doctor, not her priest.

"I'll see to the horses," the cook said, and took the reins from Mulder’s numb fingers. "I saw you ride in, and no one wants dinner, anyway. I know about horses. You get on inside."

As soon as Mulder could think again, he would give all these people a huge raise.

The doctor must have told Sam not to come upstairs, because Samuel sat on the stairs, one step down from the top. Like Mulder, his hair was plastered to his head. His cheeks and lips looked surreally crimson against his half-frozen skin. 

"How is she?" Mulder asked, rubbing his arms as he climbed the stairs. "Sam?"

"I don't know. The doctor's with her. I'm sorry I took so long." 

"You did fine. You found him before I did. I couldn't find anyone."

"I was afraid I took too long." Samuel picked a piece of lint off the step. "Again."

"No, you did fine. Go to your bedroom and change your clothes. I'll meet you back here in a few minutes. I'll find out how Dana's doing."

Sam nodded and stood stiffly. His wet socks made squishing noises inside his boots as he walked down the hall. Mulder knocked on the door of the master bedroom, calling quietly for Rebekah. He noticed his satchel packed and waiting in the hall so he could take it and go. 

The doctor looked appalled Rebekah let Mulder in, like his sanctuary was being invaded. Mulder ignored him and sat on the bed beside Dana. She still looked pale and tired, but calmer. A bottle on the nightstand indicated the doctor had given her something - maybe morphine - to ease the pain. 

"How are you?" Mulder stroked the sweaty strands of hair working their way out of her braid. "How's our Thomas?"

"The doctor is going to try to turn him. It should be all right," she said softly.

"Good," Mulder said as if he believed her. Dana wouldn't win any prizes for lying. She could be closed-lipped, but once she opened her mouth, she might as well tell the truth.

"I want you and Samuel to be careful. I will have Rebekah wire Boston as soon as the baby comes. A telegram should be waiting."

Mulder got up and went to the clock on the dresser. He moved the hands of the clock forty-five minutes ahead. "Damn it, we missed the last train," he said irritably. "I bet it's leaving the station. I suppose I'll have to stay here." 

Dana exhaled tiredly, but offered no objection. Her eyes became glassy and her body relaxed as the morphine took hold.

"Mr. Mulder, wait outside," the doctor said as he rolled up his sleeves.

"I'll be right outside," Mulder said lightly, getting up.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XI

Begin: Paracelsus XII

*~*~*~*

Melissa,

Late at night, in a quiet corner of the house, Dana discovers me writing to you. She'll pad down the stairs in her nightgown and bare feet, push her hair back from her face, and ask, "What are you doing, Mr. Mulder?" as if she didn't know. 

When we first married, I fibbed and said I edited an article for the paper or composed a note to an ambiguous friend. Now I answer, "Writin' to Melly."

Sometimes Dana curls up on the sofa, waiting for me to return to bed. Sometimes I read a few sentences to her, though it feels strange - as if I am unfaithful to one of you, but I'm not sure which. You were one life; Dana is another. Regardless, Dana knows I still write to you. She said I do it because I still have something I need to say.

Melly, I'm not sure I still do.

For fourteen years, I was as good a husband as I knew how to be. We were two children playing at marriage, taking vows without any real understanding of the weight behind the words. I was not perfect, but I did not promise to be. I promised to love, honor, and cherish you, keeping only unto you until death parted us. I did my best to keep my promise.

I did my best. You left, Melly; I didn't. I got left behind. 

As the anger and sadness fades, when I pick up my pen, I am not sure what to say to you. I fill pages about Dana and Sam, but it feels like the awkward moment a conversation is over but no one wants to say goodbye. So I am saying goodbye. Not that I will never write to you again or won't think of you every time I look at Sam or hear Bach's piano concertos, or I won't cry for you, but for now, I think the conversation has ended.

I would not say it to Dana, but her Irish Catholicism and Poppy's Voodoo Catholicism share a common belief: death is not a cessation of life, but a gradual change from one condition to another. In Catholicism, there is Purgatory, but in Voodoo, the soul splits into two parts. One half returns to the earth and is the energy of life and rebirth. The other remains with the living for a time, staying close to its loved ones. Eventually, as the living let go, the two halves can reunite, be at peace, and move on - moving not into death, but deeper into the cycle of life.

I'm letting you go, letting you be at peace. Letting myself be at peace. I hope with all my heart I will meet you again in some future universe, and we will stop and talk and become friends.

Something went wrong in this lifetime, Melly. I cannot explain how I know, but I do. Sarah shouldn't have died. Not like she did. And I should have died on that field, let the other half of my soul rise from my body and follow hers. Everything after that moment is uncharted territory, a chance at a life I was never intended to have. 

But my God, what a gift.

One of the first things that struck me about Dana was how precious she found life while all I saw around me was ruin. Her pain was no less than mine, and in many ways it was more. Still, she got up at night to watch thunderstorms and hold her baby against her skin in the darkness. She savored life the way I was afraid to. She was alive while I existed. She let me love her - body, mind, and soul - when I thought I'd never find the energy to do more than play a role.

It's not enough to survive, Melly. Any fool can hide from life and survive. It's thriving that unsettles people, and God knows I love to do that. 

My universe moved on, and I was left behind, a stranger alone in a strange world. By chance, one hot Georgia afternoon, I met another stranger. One minute earlier or later and I would not have, and she might have died alone, having her baby. It would have been 'her baby,' not 'our Emmy.' I have to think meeting her was Fate - God looking down and muttering, "Well, you're still there anyway, you stubborn fool. Let's teach you a lesson."

He did. She did. Dana taught me while a ship is safe in the harbor, that's not what a ship is intended for. 

Until we meet again,

Fox William Mulder

*~*~*~*

Mulder sat sideways on the top step, legs sprawled and eyes fixed on the opposite end of the long hallway as if his gaze could penetrate the bedroom door. Samuel sat one step down, wrapped in a blanket from his bed and staring blankly. His son's head bobbed a few times as his eyelids lowered, but he startled, shaking awake like a toddler fighting a nap.

"You can sleep, Sammy," Mulder said gently. "Go to the library or the parlor, lie down on a sofa, and get some rest. I'll wake you when the baby comes."

"We're not going to Boston tonight?"

"No. The last train left hours ago."

A floorboard creaked, sounding suspiciously like a woman moaning. Mulder stopped breathing momentarily. He stared at the door, willing it to open. All he heard was silence, which was dry kindling to an overactive imagination.

They’d adopted a schedule. Once an hour, Rebekah or the doctor would come out and update him. An agonizing forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds remained until the two a.m. update.

"Tomorrow?" Sam asked.

"No, probably not tomorrow, either."

Mulder shifted, trying to find a way to lean against the banister so the spindles didn't jab his backbone or kidneys. He gave up and turned, sitting with his back to the top of the staircase and his feet on the step below Sam's. 

"What about the senate?"

Another moan, this time definitely Dana and definitely real, because Sam heard it too. Mulder bit his lower lip, which burned as the chapped skin stretched between his teeth. 

Sam pulled the blanket tighter around him and studied his sock feet, then craned to see if the bedroom door looked any different. The boy swallowed several times and asked, "What's wrong? Why isn't the baby coming?"

"The doctor's with her," Mulder answered evasively. "He's a good doctor. He delivers lots of babies. He delivered you. He took care of your mother. He..." He started to say, “He took care of your Aunt Sarah,” but shivered as a chill trickled down his spine like a single bead of sweat.

Instead, Mulder told Samuel, "The night you were born, I was so nervous your grandfather took pity and got me drunk. Not politely drunk. Howling at the moon, embarrassing Grandmother, drunk. Except you took so long getting here by the time you arrived, I'd sobered up again."

He planned an encouraging grin, but produced a facial twitch that didn't inspire confidence. 

"I don't want anything to happen to Dana," Sam said quietly. The fear in his voice sounded like a cold fog. "I don't, but... I'm scared. I don't want to be here if something happens to her."

"She's going to be fine, Sam. The doctor's doing everything he can. He-" 

Even Mulder heard the lack of conviction in his voice, so he stopped speaking. He exhaled, not sure how much of the empty space inside him was cold and exhaustion and how much was fear. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, forehead on his palms.

"Everything will be fine, Sammy. You did a good job - going for the doctor. Everything will be fine. It won't be much longer."

Dana said that hours ago.

"Then we'll go to Boston?" Samuel asked.

Mulder leaned harder on his elbows and kneaded his forehead with his fingertips. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpanes and forcing snowflakes against the glass.

"Father?"

"Sammy..." he muttered tiredly. 

He heard Sam adjust his blanket and hunker lower, as if trying to disappear into the shadows. 

"Yes, we'll go," Mulder amended. "But not until I'm sure Dana and the baby are all right. And that's not going to be for a few days. A few weeks, even."

"What about Grandfather's senate seat?"

"This is his grandson being born; Grandfather would want me sitting right here."

Mulder glanced up, expecting to see Sam on his feet and walking away. Instead, his son sat looking young and lost and afraid.

"Come here, Sammy," Mulder offered. He guided his son's head against his leg. He felt Sam resist, then relax and lean against him, closing his eyes. He put his arm around Sam, stroking his hair.

Below them, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed one-fifteen.

*~*~*~*

Night thinned into a fine silky blackness, then ripped, letting the first scarlet traces of dawn spill through the delicate fabric. Sam made coffee, but fell asleep at the kitchen table with his dark head resting beside his mug. Aside from his soft snores downstairs and the sounds from the other side of the bedroom door, the world was silent, insulated by the white drifts glistening silver in the last of the moonlight.

Mulder's chapped lower lip split in three places, and he alternated the tip of his tongue between the raw fissures. He'd changed into the clean underwear and shirt from his satchel but, banned from the bedroom, had retrieved a pair of trousers from the laundry basket downstairs. An ink stain marred one leg. Mulder licked his thumb and rubbed it nervously, making the stain larger. 

About five a.m., his imagination got the best of him and he demanded to see Dana, "interfering" and "getting in the way," according to the incensed doctor. Mulder protested he was with Dana at Emily’s birth, and the doctor threatened to leave, saying he wouldn't stand for impropriety. Under any other circumstances, Mulder would have told him to go to Hell. Proper or not, no one told him where he could be in his own house. Given the circumstances, though - three feet of snow on the ground, the middle of the night, and a glimpse of Dana lying unconscious on their bed - he'd retreated to the hallway.

"Fox, are you there?" Rebekah's voice asked.

"I'm here," he answered. Mulder scrambled up and stood as close as he could to the closed bedroom door without merging into it. "What is it 'Bekah? What's wrong?"

"The baby kicked," she responded. "I'm sure of it."

Mulder nodded and slid back to the floor. He tilted his face upward and said a silent thank you. According to the doctor, the baby turned but stopped moving. Babies came within twelve hours of the water breaking, the doctor explained, and far more time had passed. The baby was too big, Dana too tired and uncooperative, and it had been too long. Saving Dana was the priority, the doctor said. He'd said it slowly, as though giving Mulder time to adjust to the idea.

"How is Dana?" he asked shakily. "Is she awake?"

The doctor gave Dana morphine so she'd relax and he could turn the baby. Either the doctor gave her too much or Dana was too exhausted, because she relaxed to the point of unconsciousness and the contractions had stopped.

"I think so," Rebekah answered. "The pains have started again."

"A little longer, Mr. Mulder," the doctor called. "Why don't you wait downstairs?"

Mulder shook his head defiantly - as if anyone could see him. He opened his hands. His fingernails had dug eight little crescents into his palms. Mulder interlaced his fingers and closed his eyes, continuing his dialogue with God.

"Push, Miss," he heard Rebekah urging. "Push."

"Push," Mulder echoed silently. He kept his eyes clenched shut and his front teeth pressed together so hard his forehead throbbed. 

Dana mumbled in Gaelic, saying "no," and something he couldn't understand.

"Mrs. Mulder, I need you to wake up and push," the doctor requested sternly. 

"Push, Miss Dana," Rebekah said again. "Don't go back to sleep. Listen to the doctor. Wake up and push. Your baby's ready to come."

"Push, love," Mulder prayed.

"Bab?" Dana said weakly, sounding disoriented.

"Yes, the baby," Mulder answered through the door. "Tell her 'Bhi, bab Tomas: ta se go brea.'"

"Yes, baby Thomas: he is fine," he heard Rebekah repeat in Gaelic.

"Mathair?" Dana asked in a small voice.

"Tell her yes, Rebekah. Say 'bhi' again. Tell her you're her mother."

"Bhi," Rebekah echoed, and ordered Dana to push.

Dana responded in Gaelic, and he heard her whimper as she tried to obey, then collapse back onto the pillows, panting.

"Again," the doctor ordered. 

The pained noises on the other side of the door built to a crescendo with Rebekah's and the doctor's voices urging Dana to try one last time. Mulder heard a long moan, and as the seconds passed, nothing. Dana panted tiredly. Quick footsteps crossed the floor.

There was a slap, frantic whispering, and nothing.

"Clean out its mouth," Rebekah's voice suggested.

"It's clean," the doctor responded tersely. "Get me another towel."

Mulder stared at his hands, focusing on the white knuckles and mottled red tips. "Breathe, breathe, breathe," he chanted silently. He felt his cracked lips moving but no air came out.

He heard a weak cry. He unclenched his aching fingers. He put one palm on the cool door as if he felt the baby's heartbeat through it. "Is he okay?"

"It's a girl," the doctor said as the baby's cries grew louder. 

"A little girl," Mulder echoed. "Oh my God, we have a baby girl. Is Dana okay? Dana?" 

"She should be fine. Both of them should be fine," the doctor answered, and a heavy weight lifted from Mulder's shoulders.

He nodded at no one again, and hurried to the top of the stairs, calling for Samuel. Mulder got no response, so he went to wake him, barely feeling his feet skipping down the steps or his hand gliding along the banister.

"A girl," he informed the cook and Emily's nursemaid, who'd fallen asleep in the parlor. He jostled their shoulders excitedly. "The baby's here. It's a little girl. We have a girl."

He debated throwing open the front door and giddily announcing the news to the frozen world. He had a baby girl.

"Sammy, the baby's here," he told his son as the boy raised his head. Samuel looked curiously at his father's hand on his arm and started to go back to sleep. "A little girl. Come on - wake up!"

Sam blinked and stumbled after him obediently, following Mulder up the stairs. They met Rebekah halfway as she carried a tiny bundle of white flannel down the upstairs hall. 

"Cailin," Rebekah told them, smiling proudly. "Miss Dana said her name is Cailin."

"Kee-lin? Kay-lin?" Mulder asked as she gave the baby to him. He'd been euphoric before, but as the weight settled safely into his arms, Mulder momentarily lost the power of speech. "She's- She's- Oh, my God."

"Congratulations," Rebekah responded, glowing.

"She's beautiful. Does, does Dana mean Colleen?" If he had to decide at the moment, the baby’s name would have been 'ubba-I-uh-duh.'

"Cailin," Rebekah said again, imitating Dana's Irish accent. "The doctor told Miss Dana she had a little girl, and she said 'Cailin.'"

"Cailin," he repeated, rolling the exotic word around his mouth. "Hello, Miss Cailin. Hello there." Sam leaned closer, and Mulder added, "Meet your big brother. This is Sammy. Samuel. And Emily is your sister. I'm your father. Are you going to open your eyes for us, little one?"

"She's red," Sam mumbled, still not awake.

"She was born minutes ago. The doctor's still with Dana."

Cailin half-opened one blue eye, looked at the faces above hers, and closed it again.

"Dana's all right?" Sam asked.

"The doctor said she'd be fine. She's- She's, uh..." 

A bright flash in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Dana stood at the other end of the hall, watching him impassively. Her hair was loosely braided, and countless strands slipped out of place and curled around her face. She wore a long white chemise. As he watched, a spot of scarlet appeared over her thighs and spread until the gown was stained with blood from her waist to her knees. 

"My God, Dana!" he said in horror. He gave the baby back to Rebekah. "Get back to bed! What are you doing? Where's the doctor?"

The figure continued to stare at him, pale and unblinking, and as patient as death.

"Fox? What's wrong?" Rebekah asked as Mulder sprinted for the master bedroom, his boots slippery on the waxed floor. "Where are you going?"

"Father?" Sam called.

Mulder opened his arms to catch her as she collapsed, but in the half-second before the figure vanished, he couldn't feel warmth from her skin or sense the energy from her body. Like his mother's ghost, Dana remained visible in his world, but no longer a part of it.

"No," he screamed. He grabbed the bedroom doorknob frantically. It was locked. He pounded twice on the door with his fist before he used his shoulder to force it open. After three tries, the thick wood gave. Mulder stood in the doorway, holding his throbbing shoulder and staring at their bedroom in disbelief.

He saw too much red. Everywhere. On the towels on the floor, on the doctor's hands, and on the bed sheets.

"What are you doing to her?" Mulder demanded. His stomach clenched and his throat tightened.

"She's hemorrhaging." The doctor kneaded Dana's abdomen. "Raise the foot of the bed. Now!"

Sam and Rebekah had followed him. Mulder turned, ordering Sam to help. Rebekah rushed downstairs with the baby, but Samuel stood in the doorway, staring at Dana. The color drained from his face. His lips moved wordlessly.

"Sammy," Mulder said sharply. "Listen to me. As I lift the foot of the bed, slide a stack of books underneath it." Mulder squatted, getting a good grip. "Sammy, come here and help. Hurry."

Sam shook his head frantically, the way he used to when he was small and Poppy would try to give him medicine.

"She's bleeding, Sam. Get over here and help me!"

His son turned and bolted. Sam’s boots pounded down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door.

"Damn it! Sammy, stop," Mulder yelled, but shifted his attention and held the bed up as the doctor slid the books into place.

Rebekah returned without the baby, but with a bucket of snow and more towels. She dumped the snow onto one of the towels, folded it into a cold compress and held it on Dana's abdomen.

"It will shrink the womb," she explained as Mulder stood beside the bed, watching helplessly. He saw Dana's chest fall as she exhaled. It didn't rise again. He waited, holding his own breath, but she didn't move.

His world slowed.

The doctor pressed another towel between her legs to slow the bleeding. Mulder saw blood seeping from the center to the edges. 

Another bright flash. Dana's pale, ethereal reflection appeared in the doorway, watching him as he stood beside her body. The figure regarded him impassively for several seconds and took a step backward.

"Don't go," Mulder pleaded. His nose dripped and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "Please. I'm so sorry."

The spirit studied him as though trying to determine if they were acquaintances.

"Please," he repeated. "It isn't over. Don't you know me?" he asked. "Please don't go."

Two men stood behind the figure, waiting for her. One wore a naval uniform, and Mulder recognized him from the photograph as her father, Captain Scully. The other was taller, slimmer - a blond man Mulder’s age with sleepy, thoughtful eyes. His shirt and trousers were neat but plain, and he had gunshot wound where his abdomen should have been. Her Oisin, the man she had loved in this life.

A hand met flesh as the doctor slapped Dana's cheek hard, trying to get the body to breathe.

The ghosts of the two men faded. The image of the woman changed, the trappings of their time falling away. To Mulder, it was Dana, but not the woman who was his wife. It was the soul his soul recognized, the reason for the mysterious tug at the base of his brain, the prickle down his spine, the hazy images and impulses at the edge of his memory. 

The blood on the bed sheet was his. The open water held danger. They should leave the city before plague came. The doctor would hurt her. The priest would accuse her of witchcraft. They could meet in secret, even after she married. This time, he would not return from battle. This time, she would not survive the birth.

She was young and laughing, old and weary. His wife, his lover, his friend. Sometimes she embraced him passionately, but sometimes she was a quick glimpse in a crowd. He felt himself dancing with her, making love to her, putting his arms around her to protect her. He felt her hand in his and, each time, after a moment or after decades, felt it slip away into a sea of other souls.

Mulder saw, in the blink of an eye, the women she had been throughout time and, in a few lifetimes, the man he had been who she loved.

He had promised he would never leave her. 

The ghostly woman seemed patiently worried, like a wife beginning to fret her husband was late coming home.

He had promised he would always come for her.

"Dana," Mulder croaked.

Her soul looked at him, and smiled, relieved. The image began to fade.

"Stay," Mulder begged desperately. "Please. Maybe, maybe this never happens again - us finding each other. Maybe this is all. This is our last chance. Dana, I'm so sorry. I thought- Don't leave me yet." 

"Stop jabbering and hold this, Fox" Rebekah ordered. He looked down. Rebekah put his hand on the cold compress on Dana's abdomen. "I'm getting the baby. Nursing the baby may help."

The doctor snapped that a lady nursing a baby was a disgusting idea, and Rebekah argued it wasn't disgusting if it kept her from bleeding to death. Mulder opened his mouth, trying to string his thoughts together to register an opinion. He felt his hand on Dana's abdomen move as she took a breath. 

"Breathe, Dana," Mulder ordered. "Stay with me."

Dana's ghost was gone, dissolving into nothing as if she'd never been there.

"Breathe, love," Mulder commanded again, and her chest rose a second time. A third and - as the world returned to normal speed - a fourth time. Her lips were blue, her face gray, and she shivered violently, but she kept breathing.

*~*~*~*

The storm brought the most precipitation the East Coast had seen since 1831, causing floods in the southern states and snowdrifts over a man's head in the north. In DC, streetcars and trains stopped running, telegraph lines went down as ice-covered tree branches fell on them, and on Sunday, December 30th, the city awoke to thirty inches of snow on the White House lawn.

Even if Sam had tried to run away, he couldn't have gone far.

As Mulder stepped inside the stable, he heard muffled sobs from the last stall. Samuel huddled in the corner, shivering and desperately trying to catch his breath. Porthos looked worried. The horse nudged Samuel with his velvety nose.

"I brought you a coat," Mulder said. He shrugged his own coat off and wrapped it around his son's shoulders. Mulder started to rub the boy’s back, but as Mulder moved forward, Sam shrank away.

"Is. She. Dead?" Sam asked between gasps.

"No. As long as there isn't a fever, the doctor thinks she'll live. It'll be a long time before she's well, though. That was- That was a close call."

Sam covered his head with his hands, trying to shield himself from the world. "I'm sorry," he mumbled miserably. "You must hate me."

"Sammy," Mulder said tiredly, "Look up."

His son raised his head and wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve.

"Look at my hands," Mulder requested. He held his hands up like he showed off a set of rings. They shook uncontrollably, and dried blood remained under his fingernails. "Do you see that?" 

Sam nodded. 

"I'm scared to death. Hide in the cellar, piss my pants, shaking in my boots, scared to death. I've watched two women I loved die - one in the same room, in the same bed - and their babies die with them. I'm terrified it's going to happen a third time. I'm terrified the doctor's going to say Dana has a fever or she's bleeding again. Or the baby's sick. If there's anything past terrified, that's what I feel. That’s all I feel. So, no, I don't hate you."

Sam nodded again.

"The cook's fixing breakfast. Calm down, come inside, and eat. I need you to run an errand. The baby will be hungry soon, and we need the wet nurse. It's not far. You'd need to take an extra horse and go get her. Do you think you can?"

Nod. 

"Are you ready to come inside?"

Sam's head shook no. "I'll get the nurse."

"All right. Be careful." Mulder stood and turned away. He had space in his brain to make sure Sam wasn't in mortal danger. Any coddling would have to wait.

"Aunt Sarah died because of a baby?" his son asked from behind him. "Not cholera?"

Mulder stopped, turned, and took a deep breath. Samuel managed to comprehend exactly the wrong part of a conversation. 

"Yes, Sarah was expecting a baby," Mulder answered. His right shoulder ached. He hadn’t noticed it. He covered it with his left hand. “But the baby died, and so did Sarah.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask the next obvious question, glanced at his father, and closed it again.

*~*~*~* 

Mulder knew his last name gave the old doctor indigestion. First came Mulder's own youthful scrapes and falls, each of which his parents considered a national crisis. Then Sarah's death. After Samuel's birth, Melly's stubborn refusal to comply with the doctor's promises she would get better. There was the first time she'd tried to kill Sam - and almost succeeded - and the second six years later. Sam's scrapes and falls - which both his father and grandfather considered national crises. A few other accidents Melissa had with her medicine or Mulder's razor before her suicide.

Then Dana, who tolerated rather than revered the doctor's superior knowledge. She didn't spend her pregnancy in bed, she didn't wear a corset past her fifth month, and, though she avoided going out in public, she didn't hide herself away in the bedroom, either. She took baths, ran the house, raised her arms over her head, and they didn't mention they had marital relations while she was pregnant. No sense in making the poor old doctor faint. 

As far as Mulder was concerned, though, the doctor was a candidate for sainthood. Dana slept in the bedroom, and a baby girl slept in the nursery, both taking slow, rhythmic breaths. If the doctor requested Mulder pay him in teeth instead of dollars, Mulder would find a pair of pliers and open his mouth. 

"Keep her flat," the doctor said tiredly as Rebekah helped him with his coat. He'd been at the house for three days straight, and the strain showed in his thin face and shoulders. "I mean flat. Not on her side, not sitting up, flat on her back. Once she's awake enough to swallow, give her sips of cool water and broth. Maybe some tea."

"Can she see the baby?" Mulder asked. "If she's awake?"

"For bit. Don't upset her." 

"What if she wants to feed-"

"No," the doctor said sternly. "She needs all her strength. Keep her comfortable and let her rest. I'll be back first thing in the morning."

"Thank you," Mulder said. He offered his left hand awkwardly; his right arm hung in a sling. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

After they shook hands, there was a pause. The doctor cleared his throat. Rebekah took her cue and left, leaving the two men alone in the foyer.

"I've known you a long time, Fox," the doctor said quietly. "Your father was a good man, God rest his soul, but he isn't here. So I'll say it. You and I have seen enough young women die. Your new wife... By all rights, we should be burying her, not discussing her convalescence. Son, I don't know how, but you got a miracle."

"Yes. I’m so grateful. I don’t have words to express-"

"I know you love your wife, but don't tempt providence again, if you take my meaning. You have a healthy son, and the world's full of willing flesh." 

Mulder nodded, red-faced and staring at the floor.

"I'll be back in the morning. Let her rest," the doctor repeated, and opened the door, letting the cold wind in. 

*~*~*~*

Life went in circles, repeating with slight variations on a theme. Now it was his bed and his wife Mulder sat beside, shifting restlessly in his straight-back wooden chair. His book of poems lay half-hidden under the bed - the Whitman collection starting the hoopla with Alex. Mulder reached down for the book, wanting something to fill his mind as the surreal hours passed. As he opened the cover to read the inscription from Dana, he saw three dried, bloody fingerprints on it. The book had been one he and the doctor had grabbed to prop up the foot of the bed.

Mulder closed the small book, stood, and carried it to its place on the shelf across the room. 

As he watched from the bedroom window, Sam trudged up the slushy sidewalk, returning home for breakfast. Samuel asked to spend the last few nights with his young curator friend from the Smithsonian Museum, claiming they were sketching, but likely looking for any excuse to avoid being at home. Mulder tried to talk to him several times to assure Sam he wasn't angry and Dana would be fine. He had those conversations with the top of Sam's head as his son stared at the rug or floorboards, desperate to be anywhere except in his father's presence.

Sam paused on the front walk, glancing up at the bedroom window. When he saw Mulder looking back, he lowered his gaze, adjusted the collar on his coat, and continued into the house. A moment later, Mulder heard Emily chattering happily downstairs, eager to tell her big brother about her morning.

As Mulder returned to his chair, Dana turned her head. She opened her eyes slowly and blinked. 

"Hello," Mulder said softly. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "There you are."

"Your arm?" Dana asked sleepily. She raised her fingers to touch the sling immobilizing his right shoulder.

Mulder laughed in nervous disbelief. "I lost a fight with a door. It took me ages to even notice. Are you all right? How are you feeling?"

"Shaky." She wet her lips. He reached for the glass of water and raised it to her mouth. "Thank you. What- What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

She blinked again, seeming uncertain. "The doctor saying he was going to..." She moved her hand over the blankets to her flat abdomen. "To turn..."

"She's fine. She's in the nursery. I can bring her, if you want."

"A girl?" Her eyes darted over his face as if wanting to know if he was disappointed. She raised her hand again, stroking the beard he'd forgotten to shave in the last week. "We have another girl?"

"A beautiful little girl. Cailin. She has blue eyes, brown hair. She's perfect, Dana."

"Her name?"

"Cailin," he repeated gently.

She nodded. "A girl. What is her name?"

"Dana, it's Cailin."

"Cailin is 'girl.' You named our girl Girl? Oh, for God's sake-"

"Easy," he cautioned. "Calm down." He took her hand, kissed the palm, and laced his fingers through hers. Her skin looked transparent but felt cool to the touch. Like glass. He was certain she'd shatter at any minute. "I'll bring her, but you have to stay calm."

Dana nodded again.

He employed two nursemaids - one for Emily and one for Cailin - and Rebekah acted as nanny-in-chief, but Samuel stood in the nursery, putting the final pin in Emily's new diaper.

"Dana's awake. She'd like to see Cailin. Will you carry her for me?"

In response, Samuel set Emily down, retrieved Cailin from the cradle, and settled her into the crook of Mulder's good arm.

"Why don't you carry her?" Mulder urged. "Dana's going to fine. She's getting better. Please, Sam." 

Samuel shook his head.

"She isn't angry with you, Sam. In fact, she had no idea what happened. I asked, and she doesn't remember, thank God."

Sam shook his head again, and Mulder didn't pursue the issue. Instead, he addressed another problem. "How is your friend from the Smithsonian Museum?"

"He's fine, sir," his son said politely.

"Did you get your sketches finished?" 

"Yes sir," Sam answered.

Sam's sketch pad sat in the library for the last two days. Also, for someone who claimed he'd been drawing with charcoal, Sam's cuffs and hands were surprisingly spotless.

"It's nice he lets you spend the night, and he likes to draw. I think you'll miss him after we move to Boston."

Sam glanced at his father, watching him from beneath his dark eyelashes, and went back to studying the floor. "Yes, sir."

"Have I met him? Was he at Grandmother's funeral?"

"Yes sir; he was there."

"I don't remember. Invite him for tea and refresh my memory."

Another nod and a soft but unconvincing "Yes, sir," which confirmed Mulder's suspicions. Five 'sirs' in one minute; even Samuel wasn't that polite unless he'd been doing something he shouldn't.

"I don't want you wearing out your welcome, spending so much time at his flat," Mulder said, trying to sound kind but firm. "If you want to see your museum friend, invite him over or visit during the day, but I want you to come home at night."

Yet another "Yes, sir," as his son shoved both hands deep in his trouser pockets and slouched miserably.

"I'm not angry, Sammy, or even surprised. I remember being fifteen. With all that's happened, it must be nice to - to be with someone. I understand, but you're fifteen, and I'm your father."

He couldn't envision Sam visiting a brothel, even with a friend. Mulder couldn't smell perfume or alcohol on the boy, and the boisterous chaos would have bothered his son. Mulder's money would be on a quiet shop girl or a house servant, and someone Sam genuinely cared for. Those affairs were common, even expected, for young men of Sam's age and status. That didn't mean Mulder would condone it.

"This, this girl - is it someone you could call on during the day?"

Sam shook his head no, looking guilty and embarrassed. 

"What about the pretty little maid?" Mulder asked. "I thought you liked her? Or is it her you're visiting?"

Sam wouldn't look at him.

"You don't have to see Dana if you don't want to, yet, but I want you home at night. As soon as Dana’s well, we'll leave for Boston."

"Yes, sir," Sam said, barely audible.

"Good," Mulder said, starting to turn away.

"I'll stop," he heard Sam say hoarsely, and cleared his throat. As Mulder looked back, holding the baby in the crook of his good arm, Sam nodded affirmatively, as if committing himself. "I will stop."

Mulder paused in the nursery doorway. "I think it would be best," he responded.

He left Samuel in the nursery and carried the baby down the long hallway to the master bedroom.

"Are you still awake?" Mulder asked as he returned to Dana’s bedside. She opened her eyes. She nodded and tried to sit up. "No, stay flat," he insisted, doing some awkward one-handed maneuvering to lay the baby beside her. "This is Cailin."

"Cailin alainn," she murmured, "Beautiful girl. Is she all right?"

"She's fine. She took her time getting here, but she's fine. You had us worried, though."

"Is she hungry?"

"No, I don't think so," he answered, knowing Dana remained too groggy to realize she didn't have any milk. 

"What day is it?" Dana asked, examining the baby. Cailin was small, but not red and wrinkled like a newborn. 

"It's Saturday," he hedged.

She blinked at him. "You were supposed to leave Friday- The senate. Mulder, you have to go."

The train ran, bringing the mail from Boston. Among the letters on his desk downstairs was the formal notification from the Massachusetts legislature of his consideration as a senate candidate when the January term began. Given Mulder’s last name, a majority vote was a forgone conclusion, provided he met the requirements: thirty years of age, nine years as a US citizen, and Massachusetts residency. In the polarized aftermath of the war, Bill Mulder's senate seat sat empty for two and a half years. Massachusetts needed representation, and Spender was the only other candidate under consideration.

"It's Saturday, January 5th." Mulder brushed his lips against her cool cheek, then the baby's forehead. "Welcome to 1867, love."

Such as it was.

*~*~*~*

In the violet no-time before dawn, all but one of the candles on the dresser had melted into a pool of wax around a flickering yellow flame. It was soothing, hypnotizing. The baby's heart beat steadily against Mulder’s. He let his mind drift through space as he held her, moving forward, backward, then turning sideways and slipping into the cluttered recesses of his memory.

He still struggled to comprehend the magnitude of the miracle asleep against his shoulder. He lacked words to explain seeing echoes of his mother in his daughter's sleepy blue eyes. Cailin had her eyes, his mouth, his father's dimple, and a warm little nose he couldn't place, but matched his lips perfectly if he kissed it. She was flesh of his flesh. She was his: hoped for, planned for, wanted, celebrated, cherished, and protected with his last breath. If he could cut open his chest and store her safely inside, he would have. Too much evil lurked in the world for him to risk ever letting her go.

"Another hour and you'll be nine days old," Mulder told her, as minuscule fingers wrapped around his finger. "Nine whole days, Cally-girl." 

Cailin's lips continued to move as she nursed in her dreams. He nuzzled the top of her head. Like a wild animal, he could identify her by smell: new rain and sweet cream and clean pillowcases. Her wet nurse used lemon verbena soap, so he detected a hint of it as well, like Emily had smelt faintly of Dana's skin.

Across the room, the covers shifted as Dana rolled over and tried to sit up. "I'm here," Mulder said. He steadied Cailin against him and stood, going to the bed. "What is it? Do you need something?" 

"I heard the baby crying," she answered, sounding disoriented.

"She's fine. Go back to sleep."

"I heard her crying."

"You were dreaming, Dana. Go back to sleep."

She pushed her legs over the side, her bare feet dangling far above the floor. "No, I heard a baby. Maybe it was Emily."

"It wasn't," he insisted. He stood in front of her, making sure she didn't get up. "I was in the nursery two minutes ago, and she's fine. You had a bad dream. You're still dreaming. Lie down. It's not morning yet."

She looked at him uncertainly, still more asleep than awake. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure it's not morning yet. Look, she's fine." Mulder sat on the mattress, showing her the baby. "And Emmy's fine. Lie down. Do you want your medicine?"

He knew she didn't. She'd taken it before bed, so it began to wear off now. While laudanum eased pain, it made Dana groggy and gave her nightmares. Mulder and the doctor both had to stand over Dana to get her to take it.

Predictably, Dana shook her head, but sank back on the pillows. She closed her eyes, and he thought for a moment she'd fallen asleep. He started toward the sofa, taking the baby with him. Mulder slept on the sofa, Cailin slept either on his chest or in the cradle beside him, and Dana slept in the bed. The last time they'd shared a bed, even to sleep, was Christmas night, and it had been Thanksgiving before that. He'd fallen back on his old excuse: so Dana could rest. When she was better, he'd think up a new one.

"Why are you awake?" Dana asked drowsily, and he turned back.

"Cailin was up earlier. I was getting her back to sleep."

"Was she wet?"

"Yes, she was wet."

"And hungry?"

"She's fine," he said lightly, preferring to avoid the issue.

Dana nodded. In the yellow candlelight, her face still looked too pale, too tired. She pulled the edge of her lip between her teeth. "I must have heard her, but I did not wake up," she said shakily. "She would have cried all this time."

"She didn't. You shouldn't be waking up anyway. Rest and get better. Cally-girl is fine. Go back to sleep."

As Mulder watched, a crease appeared between her eyebrows. Her jaw clenched as she tried to fight back frustrated tears. Mulder had argued many children were raised by servants, and he'd rather Cailin had a wet nurse now and a live mother later, but his arguments fell on deaf ears.

"Dana, don't get upset. Please don't," he pleaded. "She's fine. Do you want to hold her?"

"She cries if I hold her," Dana said in a ragged voice.

"No, she doesn't. Not always." He laid the sleeping baby on the mattress between them, and cursing under his breath and still favoring his right shoulder, stretched out so he faced Dana. "See? She's not crying. I don't want you to cry, either. Please don't. You're not supposed to get upset."

"I feel so helpless," she confessed. "So useless."

"You're alive and you're getting better. Cailin's alive and healthy." He reached over the baby, putting his hand carefully on the soft dip of her waist. "I love you. How is that useless?"

Dana exhaled, studying the baby's face. "You wanted a son. You wanted to go to Boston, to be a senator. I did not want you to have to choose because of me."

"First of all, I do have a son," he informed her, as if she might have forgotten. "Who, if I don't keep a closer eye on, is going to give me a grandson. And-"

She glanced at him, and back to the baby.

"He's fifteen. I was fifteen; don't look so surprised. Anyway, yes, I'm so disappointed with my Cailin her nursemaid can't pry her out of my arms. Second, I wasn't going to tell you yet, but the Massachusetts legislature met. They don’t have enough votes to nominate Spender. They agreed to vote again in February. They want me, but it does them no good to nominate me unless I'm a Massachusetts resident, so they're giving me another few weeks."

"When are you leaving?"

"I'm not sure I am."

"Have you changed your mind?"

"I'm not sure I ever made up my mind. I've been thinking about many things in the last few days, but this is a simple question. Do I want to be a senator? The simple answer is no. No, I don't. I wish you could have met my father, Dana. He was a great man. He was a great senator. He made history, and I- I make newspapers."

"You underestimate yourself."

"No, I'm not. I could do it, and I'd do a good job, but being a senator or a soldier was my father's dream for me. It isn't my dream. I agreed to do it because someone needed to, and because I knew I could. I've made other decisions for the same reason: not because I wanted to, but because there was a problem and someone needed to take care of it. While I'm not saying I regret those decisions... Nobility is a romantic idea, and I think I was in love with the idea. Not the reality."

"Are you talking about me?" she asked in her softest voice. Dana put one hand on the baby and stroked Mulder’s beard with her other. "This decision you made?"

"No. Not in the slightest. I was- I was talking about... No, I wasn't talking about you."

She watched the baby, and he couldn't tell if she believed him.

"I married you because I wanted you. Because you were my friend, and I was afraid to be alone. I made it sound practical, but nobility was the farthest thing from my mind. For the first time in my life, I was completely selfish. If I'd been acting in your best interest, I'd have gotten off the ship in DC and let you go on to New York."

He should have the blacksmith check his armor. The chinks had become gaping holes.

"Tell me you love me," he requested quietly. "Say it again. I-I want to hear it. I need to. There are some things I need to tell you, once you're better. About Sam. Melissa. Poppy. I'm so afraid you'll hate me."

He waited, but she didn't answer. He studied Cailin. He shifted his hand nervously on Dana's waist, toying with her nightgown. He worked up the nerve to look at Dana, but her eyes were closed and her chest rose and fell slowly as she slept.

*~*~*~*

In 1861, men joked snidely they seldom saw a dead Union Cavalry soldier. At the onset of the war, 104 of the 176 U.S. Cavalry officers had sided with the south, leaving most northern troops commanded by inexperienced officers. Confederate horsemen were better trained and better utilized, while the Union thought of its cavalry as extravagant and decorative. After the first battle of Bull Run, though, and after Mulder lost an uncle as J.E.B. Staurt's mounted soldiers expertly pursued and cut down the retreating Union troops, the north took cavalry soldiers seriously.

By 1862, the cavalry became the highly prized eyes of the northern army: scouting, spying on enemy movements, and disrupting their communication and supply lines. Additionally, the cavalry provided a mobile striking force for raiding or propping up a flank during a battle. They traveled quickly, sometimes spending twenty hours a day in the saddle, and able to cover more than three hundred miles in ten days. Soldiers learned to sleep on horseback. They learned to travel lightly and live off the countryside. Since they were often closer to the enemy army than their own, they learned to be on alert for any sound, even in the dead of night.

Especially in the dead of night.

Mulder first heard Samuel whispering in the hallway, asking urgently if someone was all right. Dana’s voice answered she was fine.

Mulder sat up on the sofa, wondering why Dana was in the hall. She could hardly get out of bed without help. 

"Can you walk?" Sam whispered. After a pause, he asked, "May I pick you up?"

Dana must have agreed, because one set of footsteps approached the bedroom. The door squeaked open. Samuel entered, carrying Dana. She looked small against him, fragile. Sam was good with fragile things.

If she was injured or needed the doctor, Sam would have raised the alarm. Although Samuel refused any contact with Dana since the baby came two weeks ago, Sam kept tabs on her. Mulder woke more than once to see Samuel in the bedroom doorway at night, watching Dana as she slept.

Curious, Mulder laid back on the sofa, concealed by the darkness. 

Instead of laying Dana on the bed as a man typically would, Sam set her carefully on her feet beside it. He steadied Dana’s arm as she climbed onto the mattress. "Should I get the doctor?" Samuel asked as he pulled the blankets over her.

"No, I just got dizzy," she answered, sounding embarrassed.

"You're not supposed to get up. You're supposed to stay in bed. The doctor said so. Father would-" Samuel turned his head toward the sofa, and Mulder closed his eyes. "Father would have a fit if he knew."

"I did not want to wake him. He does not get enough sleep."

Mulder opened his eyes a quarter inch, watching them across the room. Sam wore trousers, but his shirttail was untucked. He'd been pulling his black hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck, but it was down tonight. He pushed his hair behind his ears nervously. Dana wore her nightgown, but not her wrapper, and her braid kept a minority of her curls back from her face. She was less than ten years older than Sam, but they looked the same age, especially with the roundness having a baby had brought to her face.

Samuel usually seemed at ease with Dana - as much as he seemed at ease with anything besides a sketch pad and a horsehair bow - but he looked awkward now. Afraid. Guilty.

"You're all right? What if- What if I wake Father, but I won't tell him you got up? I'll only say you need him."

"Samuel, I am fine. Please let him sleep."

Sam didn't answer, but he sat on the wooden chair beside the bed, shifting restlessly. "What was it you needed? Why were you up?"

"I wanted to check on Emily. I had a dream. A bad dream."

"Emily is fine. It's the medicine," he assured her. "The medicine gives you the bad dreams. My mother had them. You have to remember they're not real."

"I will try," Dana answered, as if Sam's innocent advice solved everything. "You can go back your room. I am sorry I upset you." 

"Do you promise to stay in bed? Father won't forgive me if something happens to you, too. He loves you. He told me so."

"I will stay in bed," she promised, sounding tired. "Will you come see me tomorrow? I miss talking with you."

"The doctor says I'm not allowed."

Mulder inhaled. That was a lie, or at least a twist on the truth. No one was to upset Dana, but the doctor hadn't forbidden anyone from seeing her. Emily couldn’t bounce on her, and of course Byers couldn’t enter the bedroom to visit, but Dana was allowed to sit up and have a conversation with Sam.

"If I would ask the doctor or your father, would they say you could not see me?" Dana asked quietly.

"No," Sam confessed.

"Has something happened you are angry with me?"

"Did you tell him-"

"No," she said quickly. "I promised you, so long as it did not happen again, I would not."

Sam shifted his sock feet and intertwined his ankles with the rungs of the chair. He leaned forward, close to the bed but not touching it.

"Father says you don't remember, but you died."

"Obviously, I did not die, Samuel. I am still here," she reminded him.

Sam shifted his feet against the rungs. "I dreamt you did," he confessed. "You bled to death. I dreamt it for weeks before the baby came."

"You told me dreams are not real."

"This one was," he said softly. "Father said he saw your spirit, asked it to stay, and you started breathing again. Rebekah says it's true."

Dana remained quiet a moment, seeming unsettled. "I do not know. I remember you bringing the doctor, and I think I remember your father returning. The next memory I have is him with his arm in a sling, looking like he had not slept or shaved in a week."

"He hadn't. I've never seen him so upset. He was... If I hadn't found the doctor, I wouldn't have come back. He wouldn't have had to look at me. Then he asked me to do something so simple, and I couldn't. I stood like a coward, and I- I ran. If you had died, he would never forgive me."

She asked, "Samuel, you keep saying your father would not forgive you if I had died. Do you think he has forgiven you about your mother?"

Mulder stiffened. As he strained to hear their hushed voices, his breathing sounded loud. He tried to breathe quieter, but his heart beat louder.

"I promised I'd watch Mother while he was away. I wasn't watching her. I knew she was upset about the baby. I knew she was thinking of cutting herself, like before, but I was lollygagging with the horses."

"How could you know what she was thinking, Samuel? Did she tell you?"

"No." His silhouette shrugged. "I knew. I had dreams, like with Grandfather. Anyway, Father's used to being disappointed with me."

"If you ask if he is disappointed with you, what does he say?"

"He says no. We're different, but he's proud of me."

"Maybe you should listen to him."

"Maybe there's a reason he wanted another boy," Sam said softly. 

The chair squeaked tensely.

"He loves you, Samuel. He will always love you. Do not underestimate him."

Samuel didn’t respond.

"If you sit at the top of the stairs and play your guitar, I can hear it," Dana said. "Will you play Mozart?"

"All right," Sam agreed. 

He saw his son stand and adjust Dana's blankets again before leaving quietly.

"You can breathe now, Mr. Mulder," Dana said softly, after Sam's footsteps faded away.

*~*~*~* 

Only children believed in happily-ever-after, but Mulder had been a child - an idyllic young man dreaming of a future too perfect to be real. 

He wanted, first of all, to be a dutiful son and make his parents proud. He wanted to be a soldier and have men follow him to victory, as they followed his father. Mulder wanted the admiration of peers and the comforts money could buy; a fine home, fine horses, and the trappings of a gentleman. He wanted a beautiful, loving wife to lie beside him at night, and healthy children to hold in his arms. At fifteen, it all seemed easily attainable. Then Sarah died.

Dreams got scoured down over time. Their polish and gilt eroded away so their true core showed through. 

He had his boyhood dream, Mulder realized late one night, when the house was quiet. The boy grew into a man.

As a father, Mulder realized his own parents would have been proud of him if he'd become a beggar or a rag picker. His old blue uniform in the wardrobe held a row of medals but, in exchange for victory, his body and soul bore scars he would carry until he died. Respect had become more important than admiration, and many men respected his courage to print the truth, whether they agreed with him or not. Mulder had all the fine things he'd wanted, though he'd discovered they were merely things. He recalled the sweltering Indian summer he spent sleeping on his bedroll in Dana's hayloft, clinging to a fine thread of happiness rather than returning to the hollow comforts of an empty mansion in DC. 

As a boy, Mulder never envisioned himself marrying a woman like Dana, but he was no longer a boy. Where he was impulsive and intuitive, she was logical and methodical. He leaped; she held his feet to the ground. He loved, and she let him. Dana remained his ally even when he doubted himself, and he was her protector when she didn't think she needed protected. She was there when he needed her, and he let himself need her. As he'd hoped, they filled in each other's cracks, and no one, especially Poppy, could come between that. They had children: two beautiful girls and a son, each with their future still unwritten. If he allowed her, his wife would come to him as soon as she was able, risking her life to give him another child.

Fathers cast a long shadow. There was no glory in war. Money can't buy happiness. Home is where the heart is. A virtuous woman's price was far above rubies, and every child was a miracle. As the years passed, dreams distilled down to reality and he found more truth in old sayings. He had a chance at the life he'd envisioned, complete with its everyday flaws and miracles.

As the realization settled over him, Mulder listened to a train in the distance and Dana's soft breathing as she slept. He walked to the bed and lay beside her and curled his body against hers in the darkness. He put his arms around her thankfully, closed his eyes, and didn't dream that night.

*~*~*~*

This time, Mulder and Byers started with a firm handshake and ended with a hug.

"It is so good to see you again," Byers said thankfully. "Everyone's been worried. How is, uh, everything?"

"Dana's better," Mulder answered as he took off his coat and hat. The snow melted a week ago, leaving behind the bleak coldness of January. Four inches of icy mud covered the streets, but the empty lobby of The Evening Star building was warm. The building smelled of coffee and dusty newsprint and electricity.

Mulder looked around, glad to be back, even for a moment. 

"Dana’s much better. The baby's fine," he added, realizing Byers waited for him to elaborate. Byers stuck to his promise not to interfere, but he clearly wanted to know. "Come by and see them, if you want. I'll be there, and Dana came downstairs for a bit today. She gets tired easily, but she'd probably like someone to talk to besides me."

"Good," Byers responded, nodding awkwardly. "I'm glad."

"I came by to get something out of my desk,” Mulder told him. “I didn't think anyone would be here on a Sunday night."

"I stayed late, finishing a few things. Frohike's upstairs."

"Frohike's right here," another voice announced as heavy feet hurried down the stairs. "Right here. How's the pretty redhead?"

"She's much better. The doctor says she should be fine," Mulder answered, but he stepped back before Frohike tackled him. "We have a new redhead. Chestnut, but with some red."

Mulder tried not to grin stupidly, but didn't even come close. Society deemed it unseemly for a father to be openly proud of a new daughter. As far as Mulder cared, society could shove that standard where the sun didn't shine. 

"Congratulations," Frohike responded, and Byers agreed, smiling. "Well, sit down and tell us all about your beautiful baby girl."

Frohike poured coffee and added a celebratory shot of brandy to each mug. They settled into Mulder's office, pushing aside the books and stacks of paper. It seemed odd, after weeks, to be behind his desk again, and odder it held exactly the same mess he left behind.

"Cailin's perfect. No offense, Byers - I know you're proud of your girls - but my daughter is the most beautiful, wonderful little girl in history." Mulder paused, propped his feet up, and grinned impishly. "It is possible I'm biased."

"I do have to ask," Byers said, seeming amused rather than offended. "Cailin? Why did you name your baby girl Girl?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me? It's her name. What would you have me call her? Harvey? Clyde? Thurman?"

"Thurman was my late mother's name," Frohike said somberly. He hid behind his mug and added a dramatic sniff. "It's a beautiful name."

Byers frowned uncertainly. "My mother's name was Katie," he said earnestly, missing the joke.

Mulder succeeded in keeping a straight face, but Frohike made a rude snorting noise and had to wipe coffee off his grizzled chin and the desk in front of him.

"I've missed you, Byers," Mulder responded honestly.

Byers startled as something crashed close by.

"Jesus! What in the hell?" Mulder asked, hurrying into the dark lobby. One of the large windows facing the street had shattered, and shards of glass glittered dangerously. It crunched under Mulder's boots as he walked. Spotting the source of the commotion, he picked a brick up from the polished tiles.

"What happened?" Byers asked as Frohike stuck his head out the door, trying to see who threw it. 

Frohike reported the muddy street was empty.

"I think-" Mulder said as he unwrapped a sheet of paper from the brick and shook the glass off it. "We've succeeded in this business." He held up the paper, showing them the words 'Niger Lover' scratched in red ink. "We've upset the KKK."

"I'm touched," Frohike responded, and put his hand over his heart.

Congress considered an amendment to The Constitution granting citizenship to black males, giving them the right to vote and hold public office. It would also bar any ex-Confederate soldier - and anyone who'd aided any Confederate soldier - from office, thereby politically crippling the old south. The Evening Star, along with many other liberal newspapers, publicly supported the amendment. It had its flaws, but seemed a step in the right direction.

Mulder and Byers seldom disagreed on what to print, but Byers sent the amendment article to Mulder’s house Thursday, wanting Mulder’s go-ahead before it ran. DC had been a slave-holding district, and corruption plagued the city as the government tried to rebuild. The south had recovered enough to chafe under military rule. Giving ex-slaves the right to vote - and requiring each rebellious state accept the amendment before readmission to the Union – poured salt into a smarting wound.

"I don't know if I have any special fondness for Niger," Mulder said, feigning deep thought. "That's West Africa, I believe. Poppy once made something called moambe stew, which she swore was her great grandmother's recipe and wasn't the same without the elephant meat. I liked it."

"How is Poppy?" Frohike asked curiously. "I'm hearing all sorts of rumors."

"We are not talking about her," Mulder responded. He crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it into the air, and swatted it across the lobby. Leaving the glass for the janitor to sweep up, Mulder shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled back to his office. "We're talking about my beautiful baby girl."

*~*~*~*

After Dana became pregnant, Mulder realized anyone in the kitchen heard all sound from the bedroom. Before he found Samuel, Mulder came home for long, horizontal lunch breaks. In proper homes, the household staff was not allowed to look their employers in the eye. The maids Mulder employed avoided eye contact with him of their own accord. 

After lunch – the kind served at the table, fully-dressed – and a nap – the kind involving sleep - Mulder lounged on the bedroom sofa. He held a book, but watched as a maid helped Dana dress. Propriety decreed he behaved badly. Voyeuristically. Scandalously, but no female in the house could possibly think him less proper or sane.

Dana’s hair went up first: tamed by a brush, coerced into a braid, and pinned into an elaborate knot on her crown. She rolled on fine silk stockings and secured them with garters below each knee. The maid slipped off Dana’s dressing gown, revealing lace-trimmed pantalets. Dana wore a simple white chemise against her skin, then a corset, which the maid tightened cautiously. Dana started to button a corset cover over it, but the fabric didn't meet in front. She took it off, not bothering. Dana only dressed to go downstairs. She wasn’t well enough to go out yet, but she had invited her priest to Saturday afternoon tea. 

"Petticoats, or do you want your wrapper, Ma'am?" the maid asked.

"Petticoats. I will try a dress," Dana answered. She went to the wardrobe and looked unenthusiastically her choices. Anything that might fit dated to her sixth month of pregnancy. Before that, she let out her regular dresses. Soon after, she resorted to what Mulder called her “watermelon smuggling wardrobe,” all black and all empire-waisted.

"Leave us a few minutes," Mulder told the maid impulsively.

The maid laid her armload of ruffled petticoats on the bed and left the bedroom. As the maid closed the door, Mulder read her expression as a combination of scandalized disapproval and fervent prayer he did not muss Dana’s hair.

Dana turned away from the wardrobe. "What is it?" she asked him.

Mulder crooked his finger, gesturing for her to come to him. “I know what you want.”

She came to him, looking like she contemplated mischief. Once Dana could get out of bed and see Emily and the baby, her mood improved. She shouldn’t lift Cailin, but Dana could hold her. And the four of them could curl up in bed for an afternoon nap together. 

“What do you think I want, Mr. Mulder?”

"Something I have. Probably something you've long forgotten."

Her eyes focused on his face, then his groin. “I carried and gave birth to your child. No, I have not forgotten you have it, only been less appreciative in the last month. Why? Did you want to renew our acquaintance?”

Caught off-guard, Mulder blushed. “No. Something else I have you have long forgotten.”

Dana’s brow furrowed. “A waist?” she guessed.

"Your dress."

She looked puzzled, but waited while he retrieved the box that had come from a Parisian dress shop. 

"That dress? Do you think it is appropriate for Father McCue?"

"No, it's not his color,” Mulder reminded her. “Try it on. I wanna see how it looks." 

She raised a 'you can't be serious, Mr. Mulder' eyebrow. 

"I know it won't fit. Just for fun." He leaned down, whispering in her ear, "You do remember 'fun,' don't you? That's something we used to have, back in the dark ages. Fuuunnn," he said slowly, sounding it out for her. "Fun: noun. That which what provides amusement or enjoyment for someone - namely to me." 

"Oh, for God's sake," she muttered.

Dana raised her arms. Mulder guided the yards of scarlet silk and gold lace over her head. Like a child being born, her crown, then her shoulders reappeared as the dress whispered down her body and settled into place with an expensive sigh.

"How does it look?" she asked tentatively, and ran her fingertips over the fabric.

"See for yourself," he answered. Mulder adjusted the neckline, turned Dana so she faced the dresser mirror, and held the back of the bodice together. 

In a crowd, there would have been a hush. Mulder didn’t know if he or she was more surprised. Instead of a pale, vulnerable woman in the mirror, an elegant lady in French couture stared back. Her fair skin glowed and her blue eyes sparkled.

Aware she was the subject of scrutiny, Dana dressed nicely but conservatively. She'd never meet the approval of DC's society matrons, but she tried not to give them more fodder for the rumor mill. Besides, as a married woman, she didn’t set out to turn men’s heads. Dana wore dark, understated clothing designed to draw neither attention nor criticism. Between two babies and too many graves, function took precedence over fashion.

His sensible Dana. Not Dana, honey, or Dana, dear. Dana. When Mulder thought - if he thought - he thought of her as pretty, pleasant, easy-on-the-eye. Easily the third most beautiful woman he’d encountered. 

For the first time the word 'exquisite' came to mind. Exquisite: an adjective. From the Latin ‘to seek out.’ Extremely beautiful. Rare. Fragile. 

"Who is that?" Dana said softly, studying her reflection. The woman in the mirror tilted her head, as if she might see someone else if she looked closer.

"She's my wife."

"Are you certain?" She turned sideways, watching the stranger who watched back. Dana adjusted the neckline, pulling the little lace sleeves higher on her shoulders. 

Mulder grinned and pushed the sleeves back down again.

"Do you think Father McCue will approve?"

"I certainly hope not," he answered.

Dana squared her bare shoulders and looked again, getting used to this new reflection. She glowed – and not because of the dress. She radiated like a beautiful woman who, for the first time, felt confident of her beauty. 

Mulder thought he knew her. He'd memorized every inch of her body, but a man could strip this woman named and still not see all of her. Still not see most of her. How arrogant of him, he realized. He could explore her for decades and still be a novice. 

He had the dress cut to the same measurements as Dana’s other formal gowns, which meant Mulder could put his hands around the waist with room to spare. So soon after having Cailin, the back gaped open, but as long as only the front showed, no one would know. Leave the buttons open. It was an undertaker's trick, and it took Mulder a moment to realize why he knew it.

He let go of the back of the dress. 

"Is something wrong?" Dana asked. Her reflection watched his as he stepped back.

Mulder shook his head and sat on the sofa. She followed, trying to keep the dress's enormous skirt from dragging on the floor. 

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I'm glad you like the dress. It's beautiful on you."

She stood over him, looking perplexed. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing. I, uh, I-" He shook his head, like memories of watching her die were drops of water he could shake away. "Nothing. Come here," he requested, pulling her to him.

Dana let him guide her so she straddled his lap, facing him, drowning them both in acres of blood red silk. It was strange to be face-to-face again, without her big belly between them. He tried to recall the last time they'd been so close. Not since the night Sam came home. Not since five months ago.

"I'm glad you're getting better."

"All right," she said uncertainly. "I am glad I am better, too."

"I love you," he said impulsively, urgently, as if he'd never said it before. "You can't imagine how I love you."

"I know. I love you," she assured him, as if trying to comfort him.

Mulder put his hands on her face and kissed her. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and kissed her gratefully. Reverently. He ran his fingers into her hair, risking the maid’s wrath. He felt Dana’s hands on his shoulders and face, touching, caressing. 

He thought, of all things, of what she told him of Oisin. Of Dana killing the soldier who killed her lover. Not shooting the soldier in battle or self-defense: calculated, cold-blooded murder. Mulder understood. That soldier took her life – her future husband, her future children, the only home she knew – on a whim. So Dana took his life. Mulder thought of Poppy’s allegation about Sadie, and he understood Dana’s actions completely. He would kill for Dana’s sake, if killing Poppy would resolve anything.

“You are remarkable,” he whispered, though he sounded like he complemented a new locomotive or telegraph line rather than a woman. “I have been a fool not to notice the exquisite gift beneath my own nose.”

She shifted her hips against his. “You have noticed me now.”

He hesitated. “The doctor said I should not be with you.”

Mulder didn’t want Dana conceiving again. Ever. Or walking down steep staircases. Taking the streetcar. Or going out in wet weather. Finding her, getting to love her, getting a second chance with her surpassed once-in-a-lifetime odds. This was once in a hundred lifetimes. Once in a thousand lifetimes. He would not lose her, regardless of what he had to do or who he had to kill.

“The doctor lacks imagination. There is more than one was to please a neglected husband,” Dana responded softly. Her lips made a path from his mouth to his earlobe. Her breath felt warm in his ear. “Though you have been neglected only of your own accord. Lock the door. Then sit back and be very specific,” she instructed. Dana moved back, off his lap and to her knees on the rug. “I will never get this dress clean if you mess it up.”

The bedroom door remained unlocked as Mulder sat and looked down at her: red lips and blue eyes surrounded by all the crimson fabric. “Father McCue gives me sidelong glances now.”

She smiled an illicit smile he remembered from distant memories. “He gives me penances.” Dana ran her hand up his thigh and over his groin. He was only half-aroused, and out of habit rather than desire. Dana could fix that in seconds, though. “Lock the door, Mr. Mulder.”

“No.” The word left his mouth before he thought. 

Again, she looked surprised. “I am fine,” she assured him. 

Mulder shook his head. He could buy fellatio – he did know the word for it – but not love. Every second with Dana seemed priceless. He leaned down and pulled her back up to him. Dana sat on his lap again, facing him, with a knee on either side of his hips and worried crease between her brows. “Mr. Mulder, this I cannot do for you,” she told him. “Not yet. I am sorry.”

He shook his head again and put his arms around her. “Come here,” he requested. The fabric of the dress crushed as she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Beneath the rigid confinement of the corset, her rib cage rose as she breathed, but otherwise she was still, letting him hold her. Hold onto her - so she didn't get away. 

"A little longer," he said when the maid knocked on the bedroom door.

*~*~*~*

Except for Frohike, Mulder and Sam were the last men in the building, but Frohike never seemed to leave, anyway.

"May our artist please go home?" Mulder asked. He wrapped his fingertips over the top of the doorframe and stretched lazily. "We're supposed to feed him. He's a growing boy."

At the mention of food, Samuel put his sketch aside and got up from his workbench. Sam stood a foot above Frohike's balding head and a hair shorter than Mulder. He rolled his shoulders and reached for his coat and hat. 

"Give the pretty redhead all my love," Frohike requested.

"She's afraid of your love," Mulder called over his shoulder. "Frankly, I'm afraid of your love."

"Don't call me Frankie," he yelled down the stairs. "'Night Sammy. Thank you for the help."

"You're welcome. Goodnight, sir," Samuel answered politely. Dana had given him a soft, cream-colored wool scarf for Christmas, and he wrapped it around his neck up to his chin, preparing for the icy wind.

Mulder locked the lobby door, checked the latch, and dropped the key into his coat pocket to mingle with his collection of trinkets and trash until he needed it in the morning. More often than not, Byers beat him to the office, anyway.

"Is it all right if we walk?" he asked Sam as the streetcar approached the corner. "I want to talk with you. About a few things. If you want."

Sam nodded hesitantly. He wrapped his scarf tighter and hid his hands in his coat pockets. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," Mulder answered quickly. "Nothing at all. I- I suppose you've figured out..." He took a deep breath. "The legislature gave me until March 1st to be in Massachusetts. That's next week, which means I can be in Boston with time to spare, but... I'm not going, Sammy," he said. "I'm staying here. With Emmy and Cally. And you. And Dana."

He blew out the rest of his breath in a long, silent whistle. He watched Sam out of the corner of his eye as they walked down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.

He wanted to believe Sam was young, moody, confused. Dazed by the war and the loss of his mother and grandparents. He'd had some disagreement with Dana and, in a fit of temper, asked his father to divorce her. Or it had been Sam's dreams of Dana dying – dreams which, by all rights, should have come true - causing Sam to act as he had. It wasn’t Dana in Melissa's place upsetting Sam, but the desperate need to escape watching another pregnant woman die.

It was impossible to tell. Sam was kind, gentle, and so sensitive to others he did seem empathic. He lived in a borderland of four-four time and four-part harmony, of burnt sienna, cerulean blue, raw umber, and titanium white. Like the new generation of radical French painters, he saw the real world as moments of soft light and shadow. He seemed to stand perfectly still as life raged around him. He could watch impassively, unable to fight back, or run away.

Like Melissa, Sam’s world held so much beauty, but also so much pain.

"I'm not leaving, Sammy," Mulder repeated. "Dana or D.C."

"You promised," Sam said quietly. "You said it would be a few weeks - until Dana was better. She's better now."

Another streetcar clacked by, the draft horses' hooves clopping through the mud down the center of the avenue toward The Capitol. An afternoon snow had left an inch of pretty powder on the rooftops, but on the streets it churned into brown slush. In the distance, the new Capitol dome glowed golden, like a yellow cake dusted with confectioner's sugar.

"I don't understand how you could want me to leave Dana, let alone divorce her. I know you were afraid something would happen with the baby, but... Dana's better. You seem to like her, Sammy. You trust her. I’m the one you keep secrets from."

Sam kept his head down and continued walking.

He'd rehearsed the next part for weeks, so it came easier. "I've thought about what Dana said to you before Christmas, about your mother not knowing what she did. In some ways that's true, but in some ways it's not. Regardless, I was the reason she was expecting a baby. I told you to go to the stable, and I fell asleep. I blame me, so if you need to blame me, too, that's fine."

"Dana fibbed to make me feel better," Sam responded softly.

"Oh. Well- Yes, she did. I didn't think you realized, though."

Mulder worried his wedding ring with his thumb as they walked, trying to reorganize his thoughts. That hadn't been in the script of his speech. 

Sam paused. He turned his head to one side and looked at nothing.

"What, Sammy?"

"You loved Mother, didn't you? You would never have done anything to hurt her, would you?" he asked as though afraid to hear the answer.

"No, I would never have hurt her. You don’t have to hurt a woman to be with her – not if she wants to be with you." Mulder’s stomach began to knot. For the most part, Sam was alone with Melissa the week before she died. God knew what she might have said to him. Or what Poppy might have said. "Sammy, did Mother tell you differently? Did anyone tell you differently?"

Sam shook his head side to side. 

"Why did you ask?" he tried in case he might get an answer.

He didn't. He got was a puff of white vapor in front of his face as he exhaled.

"No, I never hurt her, Sammy. Not on purpose. I wouldn't have forced her or betrayed her. I loved her. I still love her. I love you. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I tell you I love you and I'm proud of you, it never sinks in, but I'll say it again. I do. I'd do anything for you. You're my boy, Sammy, and you'll be my only boy. There won’t be any more babies; it's too much of a risk for Dana. I don't know if I should tell you or not, but I thought it might make you feel better."

Sam gave him a sidelong glance but didn't comment.

"Does it?" he pursued. 

"Yes. No. I'm not sure."

"You're not sure," Mulder echoed, trying not to sound frustrated. 

Someone called to them from across the street. Mulder and Sam raised their hands politely, and walked on, shoulder to shoulder. The sleet started again, stinging Mulder’s cheekbones and bouncing off his nose. 

"Please talk to me, Sammy," he pleaded. "Is it a girl? Do you miss Poppy? Grandmother? Tell me what's wrong."

"I can't," Sam answered, the most telling thing he'd said in weeks.

They reached the end of Newspaper Row and turned right onto 15th Street, passing the new Treasury building and the busy telegraph office, which had a line of people stretching out the door, waiting to send telegrams. They walked along the sidewalk in front of Columbia University until it ended at H Street, and turned and crossed the cobblestones, dodging the wagons, dogs, and buggies. Two blocks later, at Saint John's Episcopal Church, they made another right, and Mulder saw his house down the block. Its brick walls rose complacently behind the broad, snow-dusted lawn.

Early in their marriage, Dana observed he hadn't built a home; he'd built a fortress. She asked him who or what he'd been protecting, and he'd laughed.

"There's home," Mulder announced, glad to have something neutral and obvious to say. "I bet dinner's ready."

"Yes," Sam answered, seeming relieved. "Rebekah said we're having peach cobbler. She’s using canned peaches."

"Peach cobbler," he echoed approvingly. "We could have sidetracked by Fussell's and bought ice cream to go with it. Should we go back?"

"I could go," his son volunteered.

"Well... All right." Mulder stripped off his gloves and searched his pockets for change.

Ice cream cost twenty-five cents a quart, but Mulder had several crumpled slips of paper, two keys, a button, four pennies, three nickels, a five and a twenty-dollar bill, and some lint. He held out the five, not happy about giving Sam enough money to buy a train ticket. That was silly, of course. Sam could easily take the cashbox, or pawn something or, as he had before, be gone. Nothing short of locking Samuel in the attic could keep him in DC if he wanted to leave.

"Your mother was dead in the bathtub, Sam,” Mulder said. “It was too late. I wanted to believe there was hope, so I sent you for the doctor. But there was nothing you or I or anyone could have done to help her." 

Sam nodded again, adjusting his scarf as he turned away.

"Get two quarts of vanilla," Mulder called after him. "And whatever you want. Emmy likes chocolate. And..."

He gave up, watching his son crunch through the snow to get ice cream.

*~*~*~*

There had been a flurry to create post-war memorials and cemeteries, but Arlington National Cemetery was established a month after his father's death, so Bill Mulder’s white headstone stood beside Teena Mulder's in Georgetown.

William S. Mulder, beloved husband and father. Senator. Colonel. West Point graduate. Decorated soldier. Born December 12, 1815. Died April 1, 1865.

Forty-nine

Teena L. Mulder, beloved wife and mother. Born June 22, 1818. Died November 24, 1866.

Forty-eight

Melissa Kavanaugh Mulder, beloved wife and mother. 1835 -1864.

Twenty-nine

Sarah Kavanaugh. 1835-1850

Fifteen. 

Sarah's was the oldest grave. When Jack Kavanaugh sobered up and shown up hours after Sarah's death, and the doctor told him how she died, he'd called Sarah a whore, shoved Mulder aside, and walked out. Not sure what to do, Bill Mulder, instead of sending the body back to Tennessee, bought the plot and buried Sarah in the Georgetown cemetery, which did nothing to stem the gossip about how and why she died.

Kavanaugh reappeared for her funeral, drunk, but looking appropriately bereft. Teena Mulder had cried, and her husband had comforted her. Melissa huddled and looked small. Mulder stood alone and felt little except empty.

He sat on the cold marble bench, gazing back across two decades. Sam divided the flowers between his mother's and grandmother's graves, pulled a few dead winter weeds, and stood beside him, waiting. Mulder looked up at his son. Samuel’s beautifully chiseled features framed by his black hair and outlined by the blackening storm clouds. The hem of his black wool pea coat fluttered, and the wind blew the fringed ends his favorite scarf against his jaw. 

Sarah had been the same age as Sam and yet to Mulder's eyes, Sam looked impossibly young. And, for thirty-three, Mulder felt old. He tried to remember how it felt to be fifteen but couldn't. He'd been fifteen for six months and skipped directly to thirty.

"I tried to draw Mother last week, but I can't remember her," Sam said as if telling a secret.

"We have photographs. You have hundreds of sketches."

"I couldn't remember her," he answered, emphasizing 'her.' "I was afraid I was making her up. I tried and tried, but I can't remember what was Mother and what was how I want to remember her."

"Sometimes, neither can I," Mulder admitted.

"It doesn't seem fair," Sam said quietly, staring at the row of elegant white stones.

"It never does," Mulder answered.

*~*~*~*

As much as their society shunned sexual intercourse, it eroticized pain. Women wore rigid corsets to reduce their waists, causing fainting spells and miscarriage. High-heeled slippers and hoopskirts were fashionable, uncomfortable, and dangerous. And, partially to ensure premarital chastity and partially because their mothers spoke from experience, girls learned marital relations hurt. Brides barely knew what sexual intercourse was, but their mothers stressed two facts: it hurt, and they must do it because their husbands wanted to.

Mulder found it physically impossible to make love to a woman who cried and pleaded for him to stop. Given the birth rate, other men must not.

Well-born gentlemen understood they married for comfort, stability, and children, not for sport. Wives provided homes and a family; mistresses and whores provided pleasure. Once men had a legitimate son or two, many seldom bothered their wives in bed – a relief to both parties. Mulder could not have been the only man who disliked pushing his wife into an act she found, at best, uncomfortable and distasteful. He suspected, like Melissa, many wives were devoted to their husband, but embarrassed by his base behavior and unsure how to please him.

Marital fidelity was the exception, not the rule. For men. A wife who strayed was quietly sent to a nunnery or mental asylum. The female orgasm was shameful, evidence of lust and ill-breeding. Insanity, or at least a precursor to hysteria. Good wives and loving mothers did not make good bedmates. If the doctor had known Dana reached orgasm, he would have recommended surgical removal of her clitoris out of concern for her children’s well-being.

With little means to prevent pregnancy, abortion was common among all classes, including married women, and acceptable so long as it was done before the mother felt the baby move. Wealthy women and courtesans sought out doctors with side entrances to their offices so patients could enter and exit unseen. Mulder had heard the procedure, even done properly, was not pleasant nor without risk. Working women, street whores, and unmarried girls sought out whoever or whatever was available, and like Sarah, died.

Most gentlemen had illegitimate children before they married with a maid or other working-class girl. Once the affair cooled, those children got provided for, but politely dismissed as the follies of youth. His Uncle Spender. Alex. After a man married, seducing a servant in his own home was considered bad form, as was letting his wife discover any further bastards.

DC had roughly one prostitute to every four men, ranging from pitiful creatures in dark alleys for a dollar to courtesans who expected to find a diamond necklace beside their pillow the next morning. Mulder would hear a familiar voice call his name from the shadows and be propositioned by a girl who once sold matches or flowers to him on the street corner but discovered she earned more selling her body. Or, it was one of his former newsboys, his smooth cheeks and lips painted with women's rouge. 

The city had more whorehouses than churches, catering to every imaginable budget, taste, and perversion. In addition to the usual act, a gentleman could pay to be whipped, spanked, restrained, fellated – by either sex – or buggered – again, by either sex. Set apart, though, and usually discretely at the edge of town, were houses specializing in virgins - real or fabricated by a small sponge soaked in blood and a few acting lessons. Sex with a virgin was said to cure syphilis and gonorrhea, which, in some troops, forty percent of soldiers contracted. Some men, though, liked being able to hurt a young woman as much as possible, and willingly paid for the privilege.

A man loving a woman seemed such a simple, natural thing, yet his world had twisted and perverted lovemaking into something barely recognizable.

Mulder was worried – about Dana, and the baby, and Samuel, and the KKK’s increasing threats – but not dead. He resorted to the photographs in his office desk drawer several times, and begun touching himself while locked in the bathroom at home, as he bathed or got ready for work. Dana offered. Not blatantly, but she sat on his lap or patted his thigh invitingly. As the weeks passed, Dana slept alone in the bed and Mulder slept on the bedroom sofa. If he joined his wife in bed, Emily or Cally slept with them. Even then, Dana curled close against Mulder. 

He tried not to touch her at all, but once, he woke in the early morning hours with his erection pressed against her bottom. Beneath the covers, beneath his drawers. Half-awake, he kissed Dana’s shoulder. Her neck. In the darkness, as the baby slept and the grandfather clock struck four, Dana shifted quietly, pulling her nightgown up. She continued to lay facing away from him. Mulder slid one hand beneath her gown and up, cupping her breast. He kissed her neck again. Her hips shifted. Dana’s fingertips traced his forearm, his beard. He rubbed his cock against the warm roundness of her backside and the apex of her thighs. She inhaled and nodded for him to go ahead.

“What do you want me to do?” he whispered as he reached down to unbutton his drawers. Cally was four weeks old. He feared even touching her sex, and she did not offer her mouth or hand. 

“Between my thighs,” she whispered back. “Or whatever you want, Mulder.”

He ran his hand over her bottom. One of his old marriage manuals suggested sodomy as a means to prevent pregnancy, but Dana had told him she disliked it. Mulder had never intentionally requested such a perverse act; he learned of Dana’s aversion early in their marriage by mixing up terms in his then-limited bedroom vocabulary. How Dana learned she disliked buggery, he had his suspicions. “Do you want that?” he asked skeptically

“If you do, I will try,” Dana answered quietly.

He hesitated. He lacked a front entrance, but Mulder had a backside, and the act did not sound pleasant for the recipient. However, until he married Dana, he had not thought any manner of intercourse enjoyable for women. Men paid to do this, and have it done to them. Perhaps men put their pricks in women’s backsides all the time, but no one admitted to it.

The bedroom door remained unlocked. If Samuel walked in, he would see his father curled up behind Dana and beneath the blankets, not on top of her. In all respects, this seemed a good idea.

Dana’s hand reached back, stroking his hip encouragingly beneath the sheet. 

“You asked and I wanted to,” Poppy’s voice whispered in his mind.

Mulder exhaled, left his drawers on, and rolled out of bed. “Do not be vulgar,” he hissed at Dana, and informed her he was going to work. 

Dana tried to apologize, but Mulder told her not to speak to him. 

He hated Poppy. Mulder hated her with a white-hot passion for taking something not hers to take. It was like a naive thing for a man to take pride in, but he had: he'd never been with a woman who wasn't or wouldn't soon become his wife. He'd thought about it. He'd even started down the path, but he'd never strayed. What Poppy said, true or not, planted a seed inside his head which grew. Its roots tapped into his dreams and flashed images across his brain if he closed his eyes.

He could not live like this. Nor could he live without touching his wife. Not once he knew all the pleasure and comfort closeness held. 

As Cally neared two months old, Mulder took Dana out to dinner. Shared a bottle of wine with her. A second bottle of wine. Embraced in the carriage on the way home. He helped her undress; she helped him. The house sat dark and quiet. The children slept, and the bedroom door was locked. The fire crackled, and sleet plinked against their bedroom windows.

Mulder’s nose felt numb, his brain dull, and his limbs heavy. He poured three glasses of wine into Dana, and the rest into himself as liquid courage. 

Despite his close acquaintance with Bacchus, Dana was pliant and relaxed. She let him kiss her, touch her. Dana’s bare skin smelled of French soap and lavender, and her mouth tasted like tart grapes. Mulder touched between her legs. Her sex felt warm, but dry.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as they lay facing each other in bed. Dana submitted, but she did not reciprocate. Her unresponsiveness added to his trepidation. 

After a few seconds, she admitted, “I am afraid you will call me vulgar again. Wicked. I am the mother of your child and-”

“Be as wicked as you like,” he interrupted, “and pay no mind to your fool of a husband.”

In the yellow glow from the bedside lamp, he saw her head nod. 

“I am afraid it will hurt,” he confessed. He went through the motions, waiting for a spark of romance to ignite passion. Touching her felt nice, but so did eating ice cream or putting on new socks. “I know it is time, but I do not want you with child again.”

“I will do whatever you want.”

“Please do not say that.” Mulder took a deep breath and reached for his trousers, which lay across the foot of the bed. “There is a pharmacy in Murder Bay,” he told her as he fumbled in the pocket. “The owner gets these through the mail.” He showed her the little cloth bag and the sheath inside it. “It is rubber – the new kind. Not animal membrane. It goes over me, before I am inside you.”

“It is a sin,” Dana informed him, and hiccoughed.

He chuckled drunkenly. “You think this is a sin? I have been with you in ways which would make the Pope faint, and you call this a sin?” He gave the prophylactic to her and sat back against the pillows. “Put it on. You be on top,” he requested. “Let me watch you.”

“No.”

“No?” She did not get to refuse. He had no intention of harming or hurting her. ‘No’ was not a reasonable answer.

“It is a sin,” she repeated, and tossed the expensive prophylactic aside.

Mulder picked it up again. “Do not be such e hypocrite. How is it any more of a sin than fellatio?”

“It is,” she insisted angrily, and started to get up.

Mulder grabbed her wrist and pulled her back against his chest. With his arms around her, he whispered into Dana’s ear, “I have had my prick between your legs, in your mouth, and, barely a month ago contemplated your pretty backside. I have had you on the floor, on the sofa, and on the kitchen table. On your back, on your knees, and on your hands and knees. I have loved you in every way I think a man can love a woman. Now, if I do not want to risk losing you, you decide we sin? No,” he told her. “Lie back.”

Dana lay back. Her angry eyes watched him in low lamplight, but she obeyed.

He kissed down her body: her shoulder, her breast, her belly, her inner thigh. He put both her hands on her abdomen and put one of his hands on top of them. “Be still or I will tie you to the bedpost,” he said, not an empty threat. 

He put his mouth between her legs, pushed apart the lips of her sex, and ran his tongue over the little knot of flesh. Dana gasped. He did it a second time, and her thighs trembled. She tasted sweet. Milky. He pushed the tip of his tongue inside her, moving it back and forth. He paused to lick his lips, and said, “Tell me when you would like my cock, with this prophylactic on it, inside you.” 

Jesus, he might be drunk, but Mulder did not think he got to accuse Dana of vulgarity ever again.

Still holding her hands on her belly, he slid two fingers inside her tight entrance.

She gasped. “Mulder-” 

He stopped. “Does it hurt?”

Her brow furrowed, but her head turned from side to side on the pillow.

“Have you changed your mind? Cock and prophylactic, in you?”

She shook her head again.

“Be still and be quiet until you decide me watching you die in childbirth in nine months is not a blessing from God.” He lowered his head again. 

He could smell her, taste her. Feel her thighs quake. She whimpered the most as his tongue attended to the little nub. He turned the two fingers inside her up, with his palm toward the ceiling, and crooked them as if he gestured for Dana to come to him. Her hips began to press up against his mouth. As soon as that happened, he stopped. He withdrew his fingers and lightened the pressure of his tongue against her clitoris. He began again. Twice, before he asked, “Yes?”

She nodded breathlessly.

He put the rubber sheath on quickly. He held her hands above her head as he kissed her. Roughly, desperately. Her lips, her neck. “I love you,” he said, looking down at her. Dana’s eyes watched his face, and her legs remained open. “I will not lose you.”

He pushed into her a few inches. She gasped. Her breath felt hot against his skin. Mulder felt tightness, but little else through the rubber sheath. He heard Dana talking to him, felt her kiss his jaw and neck. He thrust again, harder, missing the slick sensation so intense it bordered on pain. This was nice, but not as pleasant.

Neither was watching her die, Mulder reminded himself.

He thrust deeper, and heard Dana crying out. He closed his eyes, letting every thought wash away and the tide sweep him deeper into her. Again and again. She pushed back against his hands. With whatever reason still lingered in his mind, he heard Dana’s voice begging, “Please stop. Mulder, please stop.”

He stopped. As soon as he was off her, Dana rolled away and curled into a ball. She covered her face with her hands.

"Dana?"

She stayed curled tight with her face in her palms.

“Dana?” he repeated. “Are you all right?” Clearly, she was not all right, he told himself angrily. “I am sorry. I cannot, I cannot feel anything.”

He took off the stupid rubber sheath and threw it on the rug beside the bed. 

"It hurts," she'd said hoarsely. “I just had a baby, Mulder.”

“I know. I am sorry. I forgot. I, I will pull out. Coitus interruptus.” 

He touched her bare hip. She flinched as if afraid he would hit her.

He removed his hand. "My God, are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she managed. He saw her wipe her eyes. Her face looked wet and flushed when she shifted to her back again. "All right," she offered unconvincingly. "Please- Please be careful."

“No.” He lay down, not touching her, but watching to make sure she was okay. He wanted to vomit – and not from too much wine. For Dana to ask him to stop, he had made her more than uncomfortable. Nor, if she had time to start crying, had he heard and heeded her initial request. Her plea. Mulder requested roast beef for dinner sometimes; his wife had to plead and beg for him to stop hurting her.

Inside his head, Poppy’s voice reminded him, “You asked, and I wanted to.”

“I am sorry,” Dana repeated a third time. She took a slow breath and began, “Mr. Mulder, I could-”

“No.” Even if he hadn’t been disgusted with himself, his erection vanished when he realized he’d made her cry and wouldn’t reappear in the near future. 

Dana rolled away. He heard her sniff. 

"You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice whispered to him again. Mulder rubbed his ear roughly, blocking her out.

Mulder heard the noise outside. Dana pushed up on her elbow, listening. She got up, wincing, grabbed and put on her chemise, and went to the front window. Twigs snapped in the yard. Downstairs, Grace bayed excitedly. 

"Who's out there?" Mulder asked with his head still on the pillow. "Did Grace spot a squirrel?" 

"There are men," Dana said softly. She wiped her eyes again. "There are hooded men in front of the house."

"Men? Men doing what?" Mulder sat up. He crawled nude across the mattress.

The night watchman should be out, but no milkman made the rounds or farmers made their way to market this early. The groom and stable boys wouldn't come to work for hours, and Samuel should be in his bedroom.

Mulder grabbed his trousers off the sofa, slipped them on, and went to the window.

Men in white robes and hoods stood in the yard. As Mulder watched, one man put a torch to a large wooden cross, setting it ablaze in Mulder’s front yard. The KKK had burned houses and Negro schools farther south, but in DC, all they'd done was throw bricks, lurk, and make threats. 

"Who are these men? What are they doing?" Dana asked, putting on her wrapper.

"They're sending me a message." Mulder gritted his teeth angrily and put his hands on his hips. "I'm sending one back," he decided. He crossed the room, jerked open the night stand drawer, and grabbed his old Army revolver. 

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XII


	4. Chapter 4

Begin: Paracelsus XIII

*~*~*~*

The historical revisionists began their work before the smoke cleared from the last battlefield, decreeing the north fought a war to end slavery. Mulder couldn't speak for anyone else, but he fought a war to preserve the Union. In fact, he recalled seeing white Union soldiers intentionally firing on Colored Union soldiers. Freeing four million slaves was a byproduct of ruining the south. The north didn't want slaves in the south, but it didn't want ex-slaves in the north, either.

Until his father became a senator and they'd spent part of each year in Georgetown, Mulder never saw a Negro. In DC, he encountered his friends' mammies and maids: well fed, well groomed, devoted, and polite, like his parents' white servants. He hadn't understood Rebekah could leave her position, but Poppy couldn’t. Slavery was more a concept than an actuality, and he had no idea what went on behind closed doors.

At eight, Mulder asked why a pretty Colored woman stood on an auction block in Center Market with her dress open to her waist. Rebekah said it was none of his concern and hurried him past.

At seventeen, he and Byers read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" in their room at Harvard and been appalled along with the rest of the nation. Mulder had realized who fathered Poppy's stillborn baby and why she was so eager to stay with Melissa at Mulder's parents' home instead with Jack Kavanaugh.

At twenty-two, with his own home and money, at Melissa's request, Mulder bought Poppy from Kavanaugh and signed the papers ensuring her freedom. The next day, Kavanaugh sobered up and tried to back out of the deal. Melly’s father stayed furious with Mulder for months, cussing him in every saloon in town, until his liver gave out.

At thirty, Mulder saw General Sherman, an unabashed racist, defy President Lincoln's order to allow Negro soldiers in his army. As the troops marched through the south and up the east coast, Sherman "freed the slaves" by burning the towns and farms they called home, stripping the landscape of any scrap of food, and perversely promising each man forty acres and a mule - which he had no means or plans to deliver. Legions of homeless, hungry families followed the army north to Washington, waiting for Sherman to make good on his promise. Some found work in DC, some returned south as sharecroppers or went west with the railroad, and the rest of the exodus got absorbed into the sludge of saloons and shantytowns. Washington - the bottom of the north and top of the south - epitomized “the Colored problem,” as it was politely called. In every large city, whites called for Negroes to go home, forgetting they had no homes left to go to. They called for Negros to find jobs, but refused to hire them. Everyone pointed fingers and, as the displaced, destitute masses reached epidemic proportions, guns.

The Ku Klux Klan germinated in the rot of the decaying south and spread like the plague. Its members, concealed by darkness and old bed sheets, burned Negro schools and churches, intimidated Negro farmers and businessmen, and added fuel to a fire already burning out of control.

Still failing to make good on her promise to be more biddable, Dana followed Mulder down the upstairs hallway. He brought his revolver and a foul mood. 

“Are you going to shoot them?” she asked.

Mulder paused long enough to button his trousers and shrug on his wrinkled dress shirt. "I'm shooting over their heads. I might miss."

Cally's frightened Negro wet nurse peeked out of the nursery. Mulder told her to stay with Cally and Emmy, lock the door, and not unlock it until he told her to.

"Stay here," he ordered Dana, because he liked to waste his breath. She pulled her wrapper tighter around her and hurried down the stairs after him. "Stay back," he conceded.

Dana pushed the drapes aside and looked out the narrow window beside the front door.

“Back,” Mulder barked at her.

"Samuel is outside," she whispered. 

Grace stood on his hind legs and watched with Dana, barking and whining to be let out.

"Outside?" 

Mulder looked. He saw men in white hoods encircling Sam in the frozen front yard. Sam backed away, but had nowhere to back. Each time he reached the edge of the human circle, one of the men shoved Samuel back to the center.

"Pretty boy," one taunted. "Where's Daddy and Granddaddy now? Come on, pretty boy. Fight."

"Mulder-" Dana said, but Mulder had the front door open and his revolver cocked. Grace bolted past him and into the yard. The old dog leapt and sunk his teeth into the closest Klansman’s leg.

"Let him be," Mulder said loudly. The hooded men turned. "Get away from him."

Forgetting Sam, they focused on Mulder, unsure what to do. The Klan threw bricks, burned crosses, and ran like rats. The idea was to cause terror, not risk their lives. Having someone point a gun at them in downtown DC, seeming un-terrorized, must be a novel situation.

The men shifted their feet uncertainly. "Let's go," one said snidely, backing away. "We're done here."

Another man danced in one-legged circles, trying to get Grace's teeth out of his ankle. "Somebody get the goddamn dog off me," he yelled.

A weapon fired, the crack echoing in the cold night air. Grace yelped and slumped onto the lawn.

"Jesus, you fool! You'll wake everyone!" the ringleader hissed as neighbors began to emerge. Mulder stayed on the porch, keeping his weapon trained on anyone who came within a few feet of Samuel. His shirt remained unbuttoned. Little flecks of sleet stung as they landed on his hot forehead and neck. Apparently realizing they were about to be outnumbered, outgunned, and unmasked, the hooded men began disappearing into the shadows.

Mulder lowered his revolver. Behind him, he heard Dana exhale. He looked over his shoulder. Dana stood in the doorway, holding a rifle she must have retrieved from the library. The rifle wasn’t loaded, but she didn’t know that. If she could fire it, she couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn and would get knocked on her backside. She’d been pointing it, just the same.

Mulder descended the steps and bent down to check Grace. The dog's pink tongue lolled out its mouth and, in the cold air, no vapor formed in front of his muzzle. Mulder found a bullet hole behind one ear. Now Mulder wished he had shot someone. He suspected six KKK members put together equaled half the worth of one good dog. 

"Mulder," Dana said again. She still held the rifle low, but nodded for Mulder to look behind him. 

The Klansmen had left Sam standing on the front sidewalk - roughed up but not seriously injured. Mulder turned. Sam was on the ground. The boy straddled one of the men and pummeled him with his fists. Sam jerked off the man's hood, revealing Alex, and continued landing one blow after another. Alex struggled to fight back with one arm, but Sam had the advantage.

Mulder watched in astonishment, Grace momentarily forgotten. Sam would defend himself, but he never picked a fight. 

"Sam," Mulder shouted, afraid his son would beat Alex to death. While Alex’s death was no great loss to humanity, Mulder would have to explain a dead body on the front lawn to the police. "Samuel William Mulder!"

Sam stopped. After a second, Samuel got up, leaving Alex barely conscious. The boy looked at his own fists as he backed away, seeming perplexed by the blood on them.

"Is everything all right, Fox?" the neighbor across the street called. The gentleman stood on the front porch in his silk robe and slippers, holding a lamp. His genteel eyebrows looked even with his hairline. Mulder, shirt open, and still leaning over Grace under the burning cross and holding a revolver, waved. Another night on the old homestead. The neighbor waved back - being neighborly - and close his front door.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked as Sam passed Grace's body without seeming to see it. Like his father, Samuel looked to have dressed hurriedly. His dangling suspenders bounced against his legs as he moved. His black hair was tousled, and Samuel had a cut on his cheekbone. He'd worked up a sweat pummeling Alex. In the liquid orange firelight, Samuel lacked war paint and feathers to look like one of his Indian ancestors.

After a minute, Alex got to his feet. He wiped the blood from his face. Once he got his bearings, stumbled down the street after the other Klansmen.

*~*~*~*

Mulder realized his head hurt long before he realized he gritted his teeth. He stopped but found he clenched his fists instead. If he'd thought he could find him, Mulder would go after Alex and hit him a few times for good measure. It made Sam feel better. Maybe it would make Mulder feel better, too. Vindicated. Less used. He didn't give a damn how it would make Alex feel.

He was angry, despite his promise to himself, Poppy's idle words had stolen into his bed and come between him and Dana. He was angry Dana had to beg him to stop rather than him realizing he hurt her. A group of cowardly fools in bed sheets had the gall to burn a cross on his front yard. He was angry his son's dog was dead, and he hadn't shot someone. He was angry he'd been in a warm bed while Sam was outside trying to fight off the KKK. He was angry they were out of sugar and he had to drink his coffee black.

Mulder glanced at the calendar pined up beside the stove, checking for a holiday. The first Saturday of Lent wasn't significant but, God help him, Easter approached. 

Dana poured coffee for Mulder. She set a second cup on the floor in front of Samuel along with the cream pitcher. Dana and Sam drank their coffee the same, but Mulder wanted sugar, damn it.

He gritted his teeth again.

Mulder had wrapped Grace in an old blanket and brought him inside, laying the dog in his usual place beside the stove until morning. Samuel took his cup and sat on the floor beside Grace. He stroked the top of his dog's head.

"Sammy..." Mulder started, but his son didn't look up. "Sammy, he wasn't in any pain. We'll bury him tomorrow."

He got no response. Mulder pressed his fingers against the center of his aching forehead. His hand had a distinctly musky feminine smell.

"We can bury him in the woods where you and Grandfather liked to hunt." 

No response.

"I'll buy you any puppy you want. You could get another basset hound. Or would you like..." Mulder trailed off as Dana give him a 'please stop speaking' look. 

Mulder closed his mouth, clenched a fist underneath the table, and picked up his cup. He exhaled across the surface of his coffee. 

"What happened to your neck?" Sam asked as Dana bent over him. She held a lamp to see and a cloth to wash the cut on his cheekbone.

The skin around her mouth and on her neck looked red and irritated. As if a strong, bearded man had kissed her roughly, and held her down so she couldn’t get away.

Mulder studied his coffee cup.

"Nothing," Dana answered casually. "Tilt your face so I can see."

Sam tilted, Dana dabbed, and Mulder blew across his hot coffee again.

"I don't think Alex shot Grace, Sammy. Did you think he had?"

His son nodded unconvincingly. Mulder started to ask, but decided it could wait until another time. Samuel had a number of reasons for a vendetta against Alex: Alex taking Poppy away, or insulting Mulder by kissing him, or even causing the baby that caused Poppy’s absence the night Melly died.

Again, Mulder itched to shoot someone. Also, he probably could have let Samuel hit Alex a few more times.

He needed to go wash his hands.

"If Alex is involved, Spender's behind this somewhere. Spender must have enlisted the KKK to do his dirty work. To spook me, I suppose." Mulder paused, reconsidering the events in his head. "Sammy, why were you in the yard?"

"I had to go out."

Even if, from the back yard, Samuel heard the men in the front and walked around the house to investigate, the story didn’t hold water. "It's thirty degrees and blowing sleet outside," Mulder pointed out.

Shrug. Dab. Blow.

"The front door was locked," Mulder said. He turned his head, checking. "So is the back. Do we lock the door to go to the outhouse?"

His son stroked Grace's grayed muzzle.

"Sammy, I was clear about this; you will be home at night."

"I was." 

"No, you weren't. Home is in the house, and you weren't in the house. Dana and I came back from dinner earlier than you'd anticipated, we locked the door, and you got locked out. Which merits the question: where were you coming home from?"

Sam hunkered lower, watching Dana from underneath his eyelashes.

Mulder shook his head, trying to keep his temper in check. "Dana has nothing to do with this, Sam. Dana doesn't have to deal with some girl’s angry father showing up on my doorstep."

"That won't happen."

"How won't it happen? Are you better at this than I am, or are you saying you aren't seeing a girl?" 

“Mr. Mulder,” Dana said sharply.

Sam stiffened. His eyes still focused on Dana.

"You must be attending one of those midnight cello societies,” Mulder said. “Do I have a 'fool' sign pinned to my back?"

In the same sharp tone, Dana repeated, "Mr. Mulder!"

"What?" Mulder demanded loudly.

She straightened up. Mulder got a look indicating if he didn't have a sign, she felt he merited one. “He is hurt and frightened. His dog is dead. This is not the time.”

Sam looked as though he wanted to crawl under the stove and stay there.

Mulder’s chair crashed backward as he stood up. In his haste, he bumped the kitchen table, sending it shrieking and skidding away from him. The pistol slid a few inches, but his coffee cup tipped over. Hot, black coffee spilled across the scarred wood.

He stalked over and grabbed Dana’s arm. Mulder pulled her away from Samuel and the stove and this conversation. “I do not need your help to raise my son,” he yelled.

Dana tried to pry his fingers off her arm as Mulder tried to drag her out of the kitchen. She demanded Mulder let go, and informed him, “I locked the back door. You and Samuel were in the front yard with Grace.”

Still holding her upper arm tightly, Mulder leaned down, looming over her. “You. Did. Not,” he responded angrily. Dana lied as poorly as Sam.

“I did. Let go of me,” she ordered again. “You are drunk and you are hurting me. You are frightening Samuel.”

“You are lying for him,” Mulder accused her as she tried to wrench free.

“I was with my friend,” Samuel’s voice said shakily. “Don’t hurt Dana.”

Mulder let go of Dana and looked at Sam. The boy stood over Grace and watched them with eyes the size of saucers. Samuel had upset his own cup and the little pitcher of cream as he scrambled up. A pool of dark liquid seeped beneath Grace’s body.

Mulder’s coffee reached the edge of the kitchen table and began dripping to the floor.

“My friend from the museum,” Samuel said. “I am sorry.”

“A midnight sketching society?” Mulder barked. “There is no museum friend, Sam.” 

Samuel studied the wet kitchen floor. The cut on his face bled.

Dana had one hand on her arm, where Mulder’s fingers had been. Her expression suggested Mulder should be glad his pistol lay closer on the kitchen table to him than her.

Outside, a bell clanged and heavy horses’ hooves passed quickly down the street in front of the house. The fire engine hurried past, and turned the corner, heading toward Newspaper Row. 

In the kitchen, coffee continued to drip-drop off the edge of the table.

Grace remained dead.

“I am sorry.” Mulder spoke in Sam and Dana’s general directions.

He waited for someone to apologize in turn, and to tell him what really happened. 

No one did. 

To stem his hemorrhaging pride, Mulder announced he would go see what the Klan had done to The Evening Star building.

*~*~*~*

Byers had followed the steam pumper fire engine down Pennsylvania Avenue and helped the firemen put out the flames before they spread past the lobby. Afterward, according to Frohike, Byers looked around at the broken glass, overturned furniture, and smoking ruin, and said, "Someone find a broom and we'll get this cleaned up before Mulder gets here." That seemed unlikely, but Frohike swore it was true. 

John Byers stood ankle-deep in soggy newsprint with his shirt sleeves rolled up, surveying the damage as Mulder arrived. The firefighters had moved on; other buildings on Newspaper Row hadn't been so fortunate. The sky held barely a silver sliver of moon, but the flames from across the street illuminated the lobby as well as daylight.

Mulder righted the coatrack so he had a place to hang his coat and hat. He asked, "Is everyone all right?"

"So far," Byers answered. "They ransacked the lobby, but everything upstairs, including Frohike, is fine. I think Mr. Frohike must sleep here, sometimes. Susanne and I got a brick through our parlor window."

"They must know I own the place; I got a burning cross in my yard."

Byers' eyes widened. "Is everyone all right?"

"Grace is dead," Mulder answered tiredly. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. His hands still smelled like Dana.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

*~*~*~*

The cook had served dinner so long ago even the smell of it was gone. Only the faint aroma from the bowl of fruit on the table and last of the soapy wet-wood smell of the clean floor remained in the kitchen. Mulder dropped his coat over the back of a chair. The coat slid off, and he didn't bend to pick it up.

The stove's hot water reservoir was low, the water tepid, and his razor dull. Mulder used Dana's sewing scissors to trim his beard before he shaved it; he didn't put them back in her sewing basket because he didn't want to hear her fuss about them being dull. As Mulder wiped his smooth face with a towel, he debated relighting the stove and heating enough water to wash the rest of him. He decided not to bother. The sofa wouldn't care how he smelled.

Mulder checked the nursery and Sam's room; he found an empty bed and two empty cribs. In the master bedroom, Emily and Cally slept in bed with Dana, Cally's wet nurse slept on the sofa, and Samuel lay on the rug beside the bed. Sam had the pillow from his bed, but he'd pushed it aside and instead rested his head on his upper arm. The cut on his cheekbone had swollen and scabbed, and bruises Mulder hadn't noticed earlier had emerged black and purple. Sam held a pistol, his fingers loose around it as he slept. 

Mulder stepped over his son and sat carefully on the mattress, watching Dana until she woke. She opened her eyes, blinking slowly. 

"You shaved your beard," she mumbled, scooting up on the pillows.

"It smelled like smoke. Are you all right?"

“We are fine,” she assured him.

He swallowed and started to ask about her arm, but didn’t. Mulder pulled off his boots and let them slide to the floor with two soft thumps. 

"Easy, Sammy," he cautioned as Sam started to sit up and aim the pistol at the noise. Mulder reached down and took the gun from Samuel. "I'm here. I'll keep watch. You did a good job." 

Sam let go of the gun and sank back onto the rug, seeming to drift back to an unquestioning sleep.

"Rebekah said the newspaper is standing," Dana whispered. "I sent her with breakfast, but someone told her you were too busy. I sent dinner and supper, as well."

He lay down across the bed, putting his head on her abdomen and his arm around her waist. As he shifted to get comfortable, soot from his hair left dirty smudges on her white nightgown. "It's standing. It's a mess," he said tiredly. "But everyone's alive. Everything's repairable, I think."

"Good."

"Yes."

Dana stroked his hair. “Someone vandalized the Freedmen’s Bureau office. The president of the Freedman’s Savings Bank: his house burned down with his elderly father-in-law inside it,” she told Mulder. “At one of the Colored schools burned, Rebekah said the KKK men raped the teacher.”

Mulder remained quiet, with his eyes closed, as she stroked his hair. He owned a newspaper. Dana did not need to tell him the news.

The paper made money, but not a fortune. It didn't print the conglomeration of sordid crimes, society news, and serial romances appealing to the masses. Most of Mulder's income came from his investments in other papers, although his family's money made even those unnecessary. The racial and political problems in DC would worsen as Reconstruction began in earnest, and some of Washington's finest didn't appreciate seeing their names on The Evening Star's front page. As the previous night evidenced, Mulder was making dangerous enemies who believed his home and family, as well as his employees' homes and families, were fair game.

“With Cally’s nursemaid here, and your groom, I would like for you to show me again how to use the rifle,” Dana requested. “In case the men come back, and you and Samuel are not at home.”

“You know how to use the pistol,” Mulder reminded her. “I keep it loaded.”

“I want you to take the pistol with you.” 

Mulder nodded. He had fought one war. He did not care to have another one waged on his family and friends and servants. He could close the newspaper. Move to Boston. Find an occupation that didn’t risk having people throw rocks or spitting at his family because of what Mulder decided to print. Aside from liking the new wet nurse and the old, senile groom, Mulder had no horse in this race.

If he asked Dana’s opinion, she’d say show her how to load a rifle, and to print whatever he pleased. 

"Your head is heavy, mo run," Dana said quietly.

"Sorry," he apologized, and started to sit up.

"No,” she said quickly. “Your head is not literally heavy. I mean you seem to be thinking many things. Is that not the way to say it? Heavy?"

"Hearts get heavy. Heads get full," he explained.

"Hearts do not get full?"

"Sometimes." He rested his cheek against her abdomen again. "If you're lucky. Hearts also get very empty."

"What about souls?"

"They get weary," he admitted tiredly. "May I stay here? And sleep? I swear I’m sober as a judge and too exhausted for coarse words, let alone acts. And I am sorry. Is it all right if I sleep here?"

"Yes, it is. Of course it is. It is fine."

"All right," he mumbled, and felt every muscle in his body go limp. Emily kicked in her dreams, Cally hiccoughed, and, on the floor, Sam snored softly. Dana's warm hand and the sounds of a winter city night covered him: a Hanson cab's wooden wheels across the icy cobblestones and the mournful echo of a train whistle in the distance.

*~*~*~* 

Only Mulder had dreams of falling that started with him hitting the ground.

Consciousness surged over him like a tide. Mulder groaned, but didn't quite break the surface of wakefulness for a moment. He felt the merciless Georgia sun on his face, and a woman's cool fingertips stroking his cheek. His shoulder blade hurt. The back of his shirt felt wet with something he hoped wasn't blood.

"Are you awake, Mr. Mulder?" Dana's voice asked from close above him. Whatever he lay on shifted, and a shadow passed over his face. "Mr. Mulder?"

Without thinking, he moved his hand in search of hers. She laced her fingers though his and told him to stay still. He felt the soft, thin fabric of her calico skirt against his skin and realized he lay on the ground with his head on her lap. Dana smelled nice: like a baby's head and soap and sunshine and the bed sheets after lovemaking. She continued caressing his face, and he kept his eyes closed. Her touch felt different from Melissa's, more confident, more soothing. He'd gladly lie there and bleed if she'd keep touching him.

His resolution had a pitiful quality Mulder chose not to dwell on.

"Is he all right?" a man called in a French Creole accent. He was Benjamin, Dori's mulatto husband of nine weeks.

"Yes, I think so," Dana answered. "He is waking."

The previous night's lightning storm struck an old tree near the plantation house, and the branches threatened to fall onto the roof. Cutting the whole tree down hadn't appeared a tricky operation and had to be less risky than staying in the house. As angry as Dana was to discover Dori was Waterston's octoroon mistress, Dori had to be equally unhappy to learn Waterston had a white wife and baby in another state. The two women were painstakingly polite, but danger lurked in the air without Waterston around to be its target. Mulder mentioned the tree after lunch, and Benjamin quickly volunteered to help.

It was a good plan with a problem in its execution. At home, Mulder ran a newspaper. Benjamin had been a doorman at the New Orleans balls where white gentlemen came to meet their Negro mistresses. Neither man knew beans about playing lumberjack.

As Mulder opened his eyes, he squinted at the yellow autumn light streaming through the leaves. Dana looked at him, her lips pursed and her auburn eyebrows pushed together anxiously.

"I told you I'd get it down." Mulder sat up slowly. The Earth rocked nauseously side-to-side.

"You were supposed to cut the tree down, not break its fall," Dana reminded him. "Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?"

"I think I'm all right, Ma'am."

As the yard stabilized, he saw Dori with Benjamin, checking him for injuries. The beautiful, dark-haired woman seldom spoke, but she stayed near Benjamin as though he made her feel safe. Benjamin got to his feet and brushed off. He kissed her cheek reassuringly and patted her flat stomach before he went back to work. Dori sat down on the tree stump, content to watch him.

"Your back, Mr. Mulder," Dana observed as she helped him to his feet. She steadied him as he swayed. "Come sit down. Let me see," she said, guiding him to the porch steps.

He sat, but looked at her expectantly, still dazed and trying to remember what she wanted him to do. 

"May I unbutton your shirt?" She asked as if she thought Mulder a shy virgin who might refuse. After Chattanooga and a stray bayonet, he'd been bare-chested in front of more doctors than he cared to count. A few nurses, even. It wasn't proper - allowing a woman who wasn't his wife to undress him. Then again, neither was lurking in her bedroom doorway, watching Dana nurse her baby the previous night.

He nodded. Mulder tried to help, but his fingers got in the way of hers.

"Let me do it," she requested. "Relax."

She deftly opened one button after another. Mulder blamed his inappropriate thoughts on a blow to the head. Nothing in Dana’s manner was seductive. Mulder doubted they would end up in the throes of passion on the front porch with Dori, Benjamin, Dori's sons, and two bored cows watching.

He swallowed dryly, embarrassed. He was too war-worn to be smitten with a girl not much older than his son. He confused kindness with affection, loneliness with desire. Even if Dana did have some interest in him – as a lover, as something – Mulder didn’t know how to approach the situation. As he told Dana, he'd never courted a woman; he'd just married her. 

"It is all right," Dana assured him. She peeled one of Mulder’s shirt sleeves off, but left the other on so he stayed partially covered. "It is not bad. Lots of mud, but barely a scratch," Dana decided. She told him to stay put while she went for water and a rag.

Mulder waited. He sat on the warped front steps of the plantation house with his elbows on his knees. In the overgrown yard, Benjamin put Dori's two oldest boys to work picking up sticks. Benjamin surveyed the tree he and Mulder had cut down. He raised his ax, swung, and missed the trunk by six inches. Benjamin glanced at Dori with his brown eyes dancing mischievously. He murmured in colloquial French, Dori murmured back, and he swung a second time, hitting his mark.

Dana returned, bringing a basin and a washrag. 

“She’s expecting again,” Mulder told her quietly. “Benjamin told me. He’s excited. He wants a girl. He says they have enough boys.”

The one provision Waterston made for his three sons with Dori was deeding them a rundown plantation in the middle of nowhere. The doctor made no provision at all for Dana, or any child she might bear. Dr. Waterston’s priorities lay elsewhere. 

Mulder didn't think Dana realized the extent of her husbands philandering, and Mulder wasn’t telling her. Already, her pride hemorrhaged. More practically, Dana had a two-month old baby, no income, and no place to go. Let her think her husband kept a single placage mistress rather than the truth: Dana was a pretty distraction if Waterston visited Savannah, but Mulder felt certain Waterston had other pretty distractions elsewhere. Including a legitimate wife. Wealthy, established gentlemen didn't marry immigrant Irish girls, no matter how tempting those girls might be. The doctor had agreed to 'marriage' because he couldn't bed her any other way - which spoke well of Dana and vilely of Waterston. He must have written his will years ago, leaving Dori's sons a plantation he seldom visited, but forgot to change the will when he stashed Dana there.

"I like him," Mulder told Dana, remembering he once had a topic. "After I talked to him, I like him. Benjamin. Dori's fortunate to have him. He's a good man, and he's waited a long time for her. He'll take good care of her and her boys. Dori seems to- She needs someone to take care of her. She's not like you."

Dana didn't comment. 

"I didn't mean what your husband did was right,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to upset you, Ma'am."

"You did not. I was thinking."

"About?" he asked.

"About a great many things."

He heard water splash. A washcloth passed gently over his bare shoulder blade. A few cool drops trickled down his back, but she caught them, wiping them away.

"I think that's why they came here," Mulder continued. "They have no place in this world. Dori could pass as white, but he's obviously mulatto. They couldn't live together in a city, but out here they're safe." Mulder smirked as Benjamin determinedly tackled the tree trunk, sinking his ax into the dirt more than the wood. "He knows nothing about farming, and Benjamin says Dori can’t cook. They may starve, but at least they'll starve together."

An hour earlier, Dori looked for a place for her toddler to nap, and asked Mulder where he and Dana slept. Not where Dana slept. Where Mulder and Dana slept. Mulder had never even kissed Dana, but he kept turning the idea over in his mind. Of kissing her. Of more. 

As soon as Mulder returned to DC, the pressure would begin for him to remarry. His mother would drag him to dinners and parties where hopeful fathers introduced their daughters, auctioning smooth white flesh like polite slave traders. "Oh, you own a newspaper, Mr. Mulder?" the wide-eyed girls would say as if they didn't know his worth down to the penny and bloodline back to The Mayflower. "That must be so exciting," they'd gush. As Mulder sipped brandy, he would glance at the clock and pray for its hands to move faster.

A society with too much time on its hands raised those girls to be decorative and adoring - and unable to ever be more than decorative and adoring. Mulder wanted something more. A challenge. Someone to keep him on his toes and to understand rather than idolize him. He could pay women to keep his house, care for his children, sew his shirts, and - if he must – satisfy his physical urges. He could not pay someone to understand his sarcasm or truly care if he hurt. Nor would he find a woman like that at one of his mother’s fancy parties.

"At least they have the courage to try," Mulder commented. He turned to look back at Dana, making sure she wasn't upset. 

She stared at him for several seconds while the washcloth in her hand dripped cold water on his shoulder and soaked his muddy shirt. Her blue eyes looked as deep as a mountain lake, and promised mysteries lurked in their depths. Her tongue parted her lips, moistening them.

For a moment, the male animal lurking inside him wanted to take her upstairs, strip off her old dress, and do things to her he'd read about. Then afterward, to lay nude across the soft sheets with her in his arms and sleep away the long, warm afternoon.

"Yes," she said. Mulder long forgot what they discussed, but Dana’s “yes” sounded more like permission than agreement. 

He wondered, if he asked - was that her answer? Did she even think of such carnal matters or did he imagine things? Yes, if he asked, she would let him make love to her? Not out of obligation or friendship or gratitude, but because she wanted him to? Because he wanted her, and an empty place inside her body craved his? 

"Yes," he agreed.

Even if she allowed him in her bed, Mulder couldn't be with her and walk away. But he knew he couldn't return to DC chaste and alone, to spend the rest of his life in polite society wondering 'what if,' either. Again.

He and Dana had no place in this world. Wealthy, established gentlemen didn't marry immigrant Irish girls, no matter how tempting those girls might be.

He stood up with his dirty shirt still half off, and turned around. Dana stood as well. The porch step he stood on creaked, and her washcloth continued to drip. Eye to eye, she looked at him, and down at his chest. “Are you-” she started to ask, eyes wide. Her hand touched his chest before she said, “No. That is a scar.”

“From the war,” he said. 

Her fingers remained on the top of the scar, over his heart.

“Does it hurt?” she asked softly.

He looked at her hand and stepped up, so he stood on the porch, facing her. “Sometimes.”

“I feel your heart beating.”

“It is a stubborn heart,” he told her. “Too stubborn to know I should be dead.”

Inside the house, a baby woke from its nap, crying to be fed and changed. 

"Emily," Mulder said softly, recognizing the cry. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. His heart could have out-raced a Kentucky thoroughbred.

"Yes," Dana said. "I should get her."

Her cool fingers lingered on his chest, his heart pounded, and water dripped on the peeling porch floorboards. Mulder wanted to be the father of her child, and he wanted her to be the mother of his.

"Go get the baby," he suggested hoarsely. "I'll wait here."

"I-I will. I am. I will get her." Her blue eyes flitted over his face. She turned and, still holding the dripping cloth and forgetting about the basin, disappeared into the house.

Mulder exhaled, not sure what had happened, but damn sure he wanted it to happen again.

*~*~*~* 

Mulder heard the bedroom door close softly, and felt the bed shift as Dana returned. She curled up to his back with her arms around him.

"You didn't need to send everyone away.” He spoke without moving. “I told you all I wanted was to sleep." 

"I did not send anyone away. The baby was hungry, and Samuel took Emily to the nursery," she said. "You are restless. You were mumbling. You will sleep better if it is quieter."

The window remained dark, and the air on his bare face felt foreign and cool. Mulder stretched and rubbed his eyes, trying to convince his body he felt rested on four hours of sleep in two days.

"Mulder, please," Dana said softly. She stroked the back of his shirt.

"Gotta go to work, love," he mumbled. He pushed up on his elbow and got halfway to sitting. Sitting meant halfway to standing, and standing was halfway to work. 

"It is three in the morning," she protested. Mulder sat with his back to her, still in the wrinkled shirt and trousers he wore to work twenty-four hours ago. "You have barely slept. Please stay." The bed dipped as she sat up. She slid her arms around his shoulders. "What can I do to convince you to stay?"

He shrugged away in annoyance. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

"I am awake. Have- Have I done something?" she asked. "Are you still angry about last night? I am sorry."

"No, I'm not angry," he said quickly.

“If you do not want another baby- It is not my place to argue.” Dana slid her fingertips down his shoulder and his arm as she leaned close and whispered into his ear, "I am awake. I am fine. I want you to stay with me. I will do whatever you want."

"Stop it," he ordered curtly. “And stop saying that.”

She moved back. "What is wrong?”

“Those men beat my son and burned a cross in my yard and tried to burn down my newspaper building,” he snapped at her. “What do you think is wrong?” 

Mulder slouched on the edge of the bed, watching his feet dangle. He curled his fingers tightly around the edge of the mattress. He told his legs to get up and leave, but they refused. 

“You are not yourself,” Dana told him. “I thought at first it was because you had wanted a boy, but- I do not think so. You have not been yourself in months, even before Cally came. You drink too much. You snap at Samuel. You avoid touching me. If you do touch me, you are angry. Yet I know you love me. You love our family.” After an awkward silence, she asked softly, “Is there someone else, Mr. Mulder? Or rather, was there?”

He clenched his teeth as he worried his tongue around his mouth. 

"Mulder," she prompted in the same soft voice. “Please say ‘no.’” She stroked his shoulder again. “I am waiting to hear you say ‘no.’”

He bit his lip. He planned to deny it, but instead his head moved a fraction of an inch up and down. Again, he nodded yes, firmly committing himself. He exhaled shakily. 

Dana’s hand stopped petting his shoulder.

“I had decided not to tell you. I had no reason to tell you. A mistake, Dana. Bad judgment. Nothing more. Ancient history, now. You were big with Cally, and after she was born, so sick. I told myself you would never know. But I know. It’s like dirt I cannot wash off my skin. You are correct; I love you, and I love our family, and I am very, very angry.” 

He heard her take a slow breath.

Mulder ordered his mouth to open and explain, however humiliating the explanation. Words wouldn't come. 

"What did I do-"

"Nothing. It had nothing to do with you. It’s nothing even concerning you. Dana, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeated, knowing that couldn't possibly fix anything. 

He studied his feet and clenched the mattress edge until his hands hurt.

"I think I would like you to go to work," she said slowly. "If you would, please, Mr. Mulder."

He stood, and grabbed a clean set of clothes and his boots as he left. He trudged down the stairs, reached the bottom, but turned and trudged back upstairs and down the long hall.

"What about Grace?" he called, standing outside the closed bedroom door. He'd noticed a dead dog no longer lay in the kitchen.

"Samuel and I buried him in the back yard. Samuel wanted to wait for you, but you did not come home from work," Dana answered. 

Mulder trudged away again.

*~*~*~*

Men called it Murder Bay for a reason. Mulder didn’t frequent this part of DC, and most people didn’t frequent Murder Bay at all, especially at night. Between the sewage-filled Washington Canal north of The Mall and the reek of the fish market, it felt dangerous to even take a deep breath. The bookshops sold pornographic novels and the photographers sold smut. The pharmacy sold all manner of things available nowhere else in DC. Hungry eyes watched Mulder from the shadows and dirty bodies huddled under the eaves of the rundown tenement buildings. In Murder Bay, anything was for sale, and usually for sale cheap. 

No moon shown, and no gaslights. The sounds of crying babies, shrill voices, and flesh meeting flesh - in anger or in lust - drowned out Mulder’s footsteps. Fog rolled off the canal, hanging low over the muddy streets and obscuring everything the darkness didn't. He turned his collar up and kept his head down as he made his way through the narrow alleys.

He found the address he wanted. Mulder waited in the alley, sitting at the bottom of some rickety wooden steps. These businesses had front entrances, but no one used them. If men of Mulder's class kept mistresses, they kept them near the Capitol. If they visited prostitutes, they went to the elegant houses and saloons on 1st and 2nd Streets or Pennsylvania Avenue. Working class men went to Tin Cup Alley or D Street. Colored men went to the Colored whorehouses outside town. Anyone in Murder Bay at night came for something he couldn't get elsewhere, and he didn't want to be seen going in the front door to get it.

The black overcoat had been his father's - made for a shorter, stockier man. The cut was in fashion before Mulder’s birth. Now the cuffs frayed, the coat was missing a button, and moths had a meal on the lapels. Bill Mulder wore the coat during his free time at West Point, and it probably saw numerous youthful escapades. The hat was his father's, as well. Mulder pulled it lower over his forehead, hiding his face in the shadows as he waited. The revolver in his waistband was his own, and loaded.

After half an hour, the side entrance opened and Spender emerged. Spender shrugged on his coat and lit a cigarette. He took a deep draw before passing it to the skinny young man who followed him to the door, and lit another. The boy collected his money, stepped inside, and the door closed. Transaction complete, romance over.

Spender descended the steps, but he stopped. His cigarette fell from his tar-stained fingertips and sizzled on the wet ground. Mulder was taller and slimmer, but the features were similar. In the darkness, in the right clothes, the resemblance to his father must be uncanny.

"You're white as a sheet,” Mulder said softly, assuming a more pronounced Boston accent. “You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Spender stared at him as wisps of cigarette smoke escaped his gaping mouth, making him look like a dying dragon.

"Boo," Mulder said. He stood up and stepped forward.

"What do you want, boy?" Spender demanded.

"Come, Claudius. Let's go for a walk." Mulder nodded to the second-rate whorehouse. "I assume you're finished here?" 

Spender looked around for another way out of the alley besides the one Mulder blocked. There wasn't one. "What do you want?" Spender repeated venomously.

"We're going for a walk."

Mulder stepped forward, crowding Spender until the man moved back and turned toward the canal. Spender walked, and Mulder fell in step beside him. An uncle and nephew taking a stroll through the bad part of town at midnight. Spender had been drinking; Mulder smelled whiskey on him.

"Do you like Shakespeare, Uncle-father?" Mulder asked, as though he struck up a friendly conversation. "My late father favored Shakespeare a great deal."

"Go to Hell," Spender muttered.

"Uncle-father, where is your witty banter?"

"What do you want?"

Mulder stopped. He leaned casually on a metal railing and looked out at the murky canal water. Gunshots on the next block sent the neighborhood dogs into a barking frenzy. "In Hamlet, the king is murdered by his brother Claudius, who marries the king's widow and assumes the throne."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the play. You aren't Hamlet, boy."

"No, but there's something rotten in the state of Denmark." 

"You're wasting my time," Spender hissed. He turned and walked away. 

"I can't prove you killed my father," Mulder called after him, and Spender stopped. "Poisoned him, smothered him - I don't know. But you'll never be a senator. You can marry his wife, you can live in his house, you can even wear his suits, but you'll never be anything but a bottom-feeder. My father was ashamed of you. My grandfather was ashamed of you. I don't know how you can claim kin to them and be so completely morally bankrupt - and I don't care. I'm telling you for the last time: don't come near my family again."

"Or what? You'll speak to me in a stern tone of voice?"

"If I suspect you or your cronies so much as breathe on anyone I care about, you won't live to see another sunrise."

Spender considered, and smirked. "You don't have the stones, boy." He fumbled for something in his coat pocket. "To shoot a man in cold blood? You couldn't do it."

"Couldn't I? I could put a bullet in your head, walk away, and no one would ever know the difference."

In the darkness, Mulder saw a quick glint of metal in Spender's hand before the hammer clicked.

He waited for the bullet, but the gun misfired. Still, a chill passed through him. Spender had no one, but Mulder had a wife and family. While he didn’t particularly care if he died tonight, Mulder didn’t want Dana having to tell the children someone found their father shot dead behind a whorehouse in Murder Bay. 

"It's a wet night." Mulder pulled the revolver out of his waistband. "You let the powder get damp."

"You won't shoot," Spender said blandly.

Mulder fired, putting a bullet in the old man's lower leg.

"For my son's dog," Mulder said calmly.

He hadn't planned to fire. Once he had, though, Mulder’s finger itched to pull the trigger again. He thought of his mother's empty expression as she asked him why her brother-in-law lived in her house, unable to remember Spender was her husband. He thought of the cut on Sam's face and a dozen men taking turns shoving the boy around the yard. He thought of Cally, with her grandmother's eyes and grandfather's dimple which her grandparents hadn't lived to see.

Spender looked from Mulder to his calf as if realizing he would lose his right leg. Surgeons wouldn't be able to heal the wound, so it would have to be amputated. 

"You impudent little bastard!" Spender fumbled with his gun, trying to get it to fire.

Mulder raised the revolver, hand steady. Spender was right; he'd shot thousands of men in battle, but never killed one in cold blood. "When you get to Hell, you give Jack Kavanaugh my regards," Mulder instructed.

The shots set the mongrel dogs barking again, and drunken voices yelled for them to shut the hell up. No police came running so Mulder could explain and claim self-defense. No one even bothered to step onto a porch and investigate. No one cared.

Mulder stared at the body in the gutter, gun still warm in his hand, wondering how death could seem so mundane. So much evil and hate couldn't come from nowhere, and it couldn't bleed away into nothing. He expected the drops of blood and bits of flesh to reform into a thousand miniature demons, but they didn't.

He wondered what drove the old man. A cancerous jealously of his baby brother or a pure, twisted lust for power? Spender took his answers with him and died with as little dignity as he lived.

"For my father," Mulder told him, still feeling strangely calm.

As soon as Mulder turned away, a gang of young boys stripped the body: clothes, boots, money, and jewelry. Once they finished, they dragged it to the canal and dumped the corpse into the dirty water. When someone found it - if anyone ever found it – Spender’s body would have floated for days and be unrecognizable. 

Mulder tucked the revolver back in his waistband, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly down 15th Street toward home. Near the White House, a young prostitute addressed him by name and asked through chattering teeth if he wanted a lady friend. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was another of his old newsboys working as a two-dollar whore. Mulder looked at her a moment. She was the missing girl Samuel worried over a few months ago who. He would tell Sam he’d seen her. Mulder took off his father's coat, and gave it to her, and walked on alone through the cold fog.

*~*~*~*

Dinner waited in the oven still tepid if Mulder made it home by eight, cold and near petrified at ten. By midnight, he might as well eat a brick. Mulder would feed it to the dog, but had no dog to feed it to.

Rebekah packed a lunch for him each morning in case he couldn't find time to come home at noon. Dinner was at six, but Mulder usually milled around the kitchen, stomach growling, making a nuisance of himself by a quarter 'till. The presses stopped running mid-afternoon, the reporters left, and he had little to do in his office after four-thirty. Except, for the last week, to sit at his desk and not go home. 

He hadn't appeared for dinner Monday, and Dana let his plate sit on the dining room table all night in protest. Tuesday, she left a note saying dinner was in the oven. By Thursday, according to the number of goblets drying on the rack, she didn't even set a place for him. By Friday, he saw the remains of one place setting, indicating either Sam hadn't come home either or Dana hadn't eaten.

Mulder ate alone in the kitchen after everyone else was asleep, slept in one of the spare bedrooms or in the library, and left for work before dawn. He’d seen Dana once this week. Emily had a nightmare, and he heard her calling for "Dahdah" as he came home. By the time he got upstairs, Dana held Emily. Mulder watched from the doorway, waiting for Dana to speak. He turned and left silently when she hadn't.

At one in the morning, Dana sat at the kitchen table as he unlocked the back door. Mulder hesitated, knowing she didn't want to see him. He almost turned away before he realized she was asleep with her head resting on a stack of clean diapers she'd been folding. 

Having two girls younger than two years old meant dozens of diapers each day. The maids laundered them, but as a wet winter slid into a cold, wet spring, getting them dry took forever. The cook hung them on racks near the stove each evening, and Dana must have been folding them as she fell asleep.

He tried to be quiet, but Dana looked up as he closed the door. She inhaled, blinked, and shook her head to clear it. She stood and pushed the diapers aside to make a place for him. "Please sit," she offered like he was a restaurant patron and she the host. 

Mulder pulled the revolver from his waistband, laid it on the table, and sat down. He picked up his fork and poked at the food on the plate she set in front of him. He recognized the petrified green stalks as asparagus, and new potatoes were easy. He couldn't identify what lay under the congealed hollandaise sauce.

"What was this?" he asked neutrally, wanting to say something.

"Stuffed flounder."

Fish. For Dana and Rebekah, it was Lent.

"I bet it was good seven hours ago."

"It was nice," she answered politely.

"Is there-" Before he could finish, the butter dish appeared on the table in front of him. "Thank you," he mumbled.

Dana added a butter knife.

Mulder poked the fish a few times before he put his fork down. He propped his elbow on the table beside his plate, put his forehead on his fist, and closed his eyes in frustration.

"Would you like something else?" Dana asked with her back to him.

He shook his head, kneading his knuckles into his aching forehead.

Mulder heard her turn, and felt her eyes boring into the top of his head.

"Mr. Mulder, would you like-"

"Stop it! Stop being so goddamn polite and yell at me. Slap me. Say I'm a lying bastard and tell me to get the hell away from you, but stop treating me like I'm a stranger you're obligated to serve. Stop making sure my dinner's fine and my shirts are pressed. Say you hate me!"

He didn't have the courage to look at her, but as far as he could tell, she didn't move.

"I'm sorry," he continued miserably. "However angry and disappointed you are, I'm three times as angry and disappointed at myself. I would kill to make it go away - to never think about it again, but I can't. And now, neither can you. I should never have told you. You're going to think about it every time you look at me. And, and I don't know how to fix it. To fix this. I never wanted this: you, me, us, this." He looked up and gestured around the kitchen. "Keeping up appearances. I'd rather live in a shack and starve than have you look at me the way I know you are."

He glanced up at her with his forehead wrinkled. He alternated clenching his right and his left molars. After a few seconds, he covered his face with his hands and closed his eyes again. His fingers smelled of gunpowder, which stung his nose and throat.

"I never wanted this either." Footsteps approached. He heard china and silver clink as she removed his plate. "This huge house, dresses from Paris, fine horses, a box at the opera, dinner at Harvey's - we never talked about those things. I did not want my daughter to be hungry or afraid. I did not want us to be cold. Aside from that, all I wanted was you. Only you. Because you wanted me. Only me."

"I did want only you. I still do." He raised his head, still keeping his middle and index fingers pressed against his eyelids. "Tell me what to do to fix this. Do you want me to take Sam and leave?"

A chair slid across the floor as Dana sat near him. She moved the revolver aside. "I want you to tell me what happened."

He lowered his hands and stared at the wooden tabletop before he shook his head. "I can't."

"Tell me why. I do not understand. Was it because I was going to have a baby?"

"No."

"Why, then? I did whatever you asked." 

He swallowed dryly. "Dana, I'm not Waterston. I didn't plan it. I was so far gone I barely remembered my own name. I-I must have been thinking about it, and, and I should have told her no, but I guess I didn't. Or else she didn't listen. It's not something I wanted to happen."

She was quiet a long time. Mulder’s chair squeaked as he shifted nervously.

"Is that why you fired Poppy?" she asked. "Because you were drunk and she seduced you?"

He swallowed again. "She quit."

"Dig your grave a little deeper," she said coolly, demonstrating excellent use of an American idiom.

He nodded. "Yes, that's why I fired her."

"Christmas morning?"

"Yes," he mumbled, wanting this conversation over.

"Never before?" 

"Once. I was at Harvard. I told you."

"You told me you kissed her."

If the floor had a trapdoor, he'd have used it. If the kitchen had a mouse hole, he'd have tried to squirm through. 

"It was a thorough, undressed kiss. I was upset with Melly, and my father caught me with Poppy and said he'd send her back to Kavanaugh if I ever did it again. Looking back- Looking back, Poppy instigated it, but I didn't realize at the time. I was so naive I thought had. I wanted to tell Melissa, but Father told me not to, it would hurt her."

"I am not Melissa."

"I understand," he agreed humbly, in his very sorry voice.

"I told you! I told you Poppy was dangerous. I told you she'd do anything to have control over you."

"Yes, you did," he agreed, even sorrier.

"She told Samuel. Did you know? He thinks the two of you were lovers. He thinks you are Sadie's father. He asked me and I told him Poppy lied. Damn it, Mulder!"

He didn't have a sorrier voice, so he looked for a way to melt through the cracks in the floor. 

"I'd like to put a bullet between the woman's eyes."

Mulder reached for the gun and handed it to her butt-first. "It is loaded. Feel free."

*~*~*~*

Mulder sat on the sofa. He watched Dana as she undressed for bed. He wondered which of them felt more nervous.

"The sofa's fine," he told her softly. "Or I can keep you warm. Or I can sleep down the hall. Or am I the maid tonight?"

In response, Dana turned for him to untie the back of her corset. He worked the laces loose, slipped the stiff whalebones off, and massaged away the hurt where they'd pinched. Her skin beneath her chemise was warm and yielding, and she stayed still while he rubbed.

His fingers slid forward, across her soft abdomen and up her torso until he grazed the bottom of her breasts as she stood in front of him. He leaned forward, putting his arms around her waist and resting his forehead against the small of her back. Still seated, he found the drawstring at the waist of her pantalets, untied it, and two legs of loose cotton and lace fell to the floor. 

"You know I want you. Only you," he said softly, watching the contrast between his tanned hands and her white skin in the lamplight as he touched her. "You know you don't have to do this," he whispered, looking up.

Her reflection in the dresser mirror bit her lip.

"Are you... doing this?" he asked uncertainly.

The reflection nodded slowly. He gathered her chemise and helped her pull it over her head, leaving the delicate silk stockings and the garters holding them in place.

"Kiss me," he requested. She turned and - gently, hesitantly - covered his mouth with hers. Mulder closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa. She moved with him, settling half on his lap, half on the sofa cushion beside him. As he asked, she kissed him, slowly making her way from his lips to his nose, his cheekbones and earlobes. The fabric of his shirt pulled as she unbuttoned it. She rested her forehead against the base of his neck for a long time.

He opened his eyes, slid one hand down her shoulder, and cupped the other hand against her face. "I love you," he promised. "You know no one and nothing will ever change that."

"I know," she murmured as she kissed his palm. "You smell like gunpowder."

"I shot Spender," he mumbled. “Now you and I are both murderers.”

She removed her lips from his finger and asked, "When?" in surprise.

"Forty minutes ago."

"Why?" 

"He shot first. I went to talk to him about the KKK and he tried to kill me."

She remained wide-eyed, with her pink lips moist and parted. “He tried to kill you?”

“His gun misfired. Mine did not. His body’s floating in the Washington Canal.”

She looked at him a long moment. “Good.” 

Dana closed her eyes and resumed tracing a slow path across his body with her mouth.

*~*~*~*

Mulder would concede to being dense, and to becoming overly focused on one thing to the exclusion of all else. He'd concede he was a romantic and could be so annoyingly optimistic people wanted to hit him in the face with a shovel. But even he wasn't such a starry-eyed fool he believed physical intimacy equaled forgiveness. At best, it meant Dana wanted to move on. At worst, it meant, as his wife, her vows included ending up on her back – or knees, or hands and knees - whenever he wanted. His brain leaned toward the former, while his guilty conscience argued the latter.

He felt ten tons of guilt about possibly being with Poppy years ago. So far, Mulder didn’t feel one ounce of guilt about killing Spender.

"Are you all right?" he asked. She lay beneath the blankets beside him, not leaving, but not touching him.

"Fine," Dana answered softly.

"Do you need anything? A drink of water?"

She shook her head.

Mulder was too tired to see straight, let alone think straight, but sleep seemed as foreign a concept to his body as flying. Too many thoughts buzzed around his brain, too random to analyze, too insistent to ignore. He tried to capture and examine them one at a time, but they were too transient. One worry led to another, which led to another, like dominoes toppling.

"Dana, did you want me to leave? I can sleep on the sofa, if you want."

"I want you to be quiet, be still, and let me go to sleep."

"Oh. All right," he agreed quickly. 

He told himself he'd be completely silent and motionless, which caused his entire body to itch, twitch, or demanded to be moved. He fought the tickle in his throat as long as possible, holding his breath until he turned blue before he coughed. 

Dana sighed and rolled over. Uninvited, he curled up to her back and wrapped his arms around her. 

"I love you. You know, don't you?"

"Yes, I know," she answered for the hundredth time of the night.

"You know I'm sorry."

"Yes, I know you are sorry," she repeated. "Go to sleep."

"All right," he answered meekly. "It didn't hurt?" he asked, allowing himself one last question. Or three. "Would you tell me if it hurt, or be afraid I would be angry? Was it at least nice?”

He had no illusions. He could not recall a less passionate experience in bed with Dana. Mulder had performed the expected husbandly duty adequately, and Dana didn’t need a more enthusiastic adjective than 'nice.' It had been nice. Done. For Mulder: Adequate. A few degrees more pleasant than his hand and the photographs in his desk drawer. For Dana: like laundry, but less pleasurable.

"You did not hurt me. I thought you did not want another baby so soon, though," Dana mumbled. “I thought you would- Say the Latin phrase again,” she requested tiredly.

"Coitus interruptus," Mulder remembered, about six minutes too late.

*~*~*~*

Once again, he'd heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike two and five, and every fifteen-minute increment in between. In another half-hour, he could consider the night officially over and say he was getting up to go to work. Mulder didn't usually work on Sunday, but he could be out of the house before Dana realized.

She gave every appearance of being asleep, but the rise and fall of her rib cage beneath his hand indicated she wasn't. Her eyes were open and she stared out their bedroom window at the black night. He fitted the top of her head snugly under his chin, wrapped his arms tighter around her, and helped her stare at nothing.

In the distance, a train pushed through the darkness, its steam whistle floating sadly through the cold, wet air. 

"Her name was Anne," Mulder said softly, as though they were in the middle of a long conversation. "Not a fancy name, but there was nothing fancy about her. Just Anne. She was about the age you are, and at the time, I was a few years younger. A nice girl from a well-to-do family. Quiet. Bookish, though she tried not to let it show. To see her on the street, nothing about her would stand out." Mulder paused and thought a few seconds. "She had pretty chestnut hair, and nice hands."

"She'd married a New York ship-building tycoon, to everyone's approval," he continued. "She was a child bride her husband had grown tired of, though I thought them on good terms. He was in his fifties, content to smoke cigars, sip Scotch, and speculate about politics all evening. They never had children, though I never knew why. Once, I heard him insinuate they still tried for a baby the last Saturday of the month. He felt it was his duty, but I suspect he’d given up hope. I know Anne had."

Mulder paused again, turning over old memories in his mind. "My father owned shares in her husband's ship-building business, and there were quarterly meetings for the stockholders. Instead of going, Father sent me."

Dana shifted, moving the hand she'd slid under her pillow.

"Anne wasn't at the meetings, of course, but I'd see her afterward. She and her husband stayed in a hotel in the city, and he'd invite the shareholders for dinner. Everyone else in the room dated from the time dinosaurs roamed the Earth, so Anne and I would take our glasses of wine and walk along the edge of Central Park after dinner. Or we'd sit beside the fire in the hotel parlor, discussing books or plays. She'd been to Europe on her honeymoon - to the museums and the opera - and we talked about her tour. We talked about Samuel and how much she'd wanted a large family. We talked about Melissa enough she knew I was married and my wife was ill. I didn't tell her Melissa had tried to kill herself and Samuel, and she was locked in an insane asylum at the time, but I didn't tell anyone."

Mulder cleared his throat, took a breath, and continued, "We were friends. Like you, she was easy to talk to. I began to look forward to those boring quarterly meetings because I'd get to talk to her afterward. I never considered writing her or trying to see her any other time because it wouldn't have been proper. I wasn't in love with her, and I never considered she might be in love with me."

Something stubborn stuck in his throat, and it took several tries before he managed to speak again. 

"It was January. Cold, icy, generally miserable. That evening, we talked until her husband invited the men to his salon for brandy and cigars. I rolled my eyes at her, knowing they'd pontificate until dawn about their own importance, and I'd be bored to death. Anne and I would have gone for a walk, but the weather was bad, and women weren't welcome in the smoking salon. She smiled sympathetically, shook my hand, said goodnight to everyone, and went to bed. It wasn't the last Saturday of the month, so she and her husband had separate rooms at the hotel. After she left, the key to her room was in my hand."

Dana exhaled slowly.

"I'd swear Anne never did anything like that before in her life, and it must have taken weeks for her to work up the nerve. I went back to my room and stared at the key. I took a bath. Shaved. Dressed. Had a drink. Had another drink – and I’d had several drinks earlier in the evening. I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a long time. I sat on my bed and stared at the key. No one would have ever known. She wasn't asking for romance. She wasn't leaving her husband, and she didn't expect me to leave my wife. She wanted a baby, but I don't think that was the reason, either. I don't know if she even wanted to go to bed with me. She was lonely, and so was I. She looked at the rest of her life and felt terrified by what she saw, and so did I. I stared at the key for hours until I took it to the front desk and told the clerk someone dropped it. I went back to DC early the next morning. The next meeting, I told Father I was too busy with the newspaper to go."

Dana still hadn't spoken, but the tension in her shoulders told him she listened.

"I saw Anne once more, at a ball my parents gave to celebrate their wedding anniversary. All of Washington and half of Boston attended. Melissa was better. Melly liked parties, so we went, and Anne and her husband were there."

He paused. 

"For once, Mother persuaded Melissa married women didn't wear pink, so she wore a dark rose-colored silk gown from Paris. Men strained their necks craning at her. You've seen the dress; Poppy wore it to the symphony. Melly was so beautiful, but for the first time in ages she was happy. That evening, she glowed. She liked to dance, so we danced and laughed and drank too much champagne, and as we waltzed, I saw Anne with her husband across the room. He was talking with his friends and paying no attention to her, but Anne never took her eyes off us. I'd told her Melissa was pretty, but she'd never seen Melissa. As the waltz ended, I saw Anne leave the ballroom. As soon as I could, I left Melissa with Father and went after Anne. I don't know what I thought I was going to do or say, but I couldn't find Anne. Soon, Melissa came looking for me and I had to go back to the dance. Later, Mother said Anne had a headache and asked her husband to take her home - which Mother thought strange because Anne asked him to make the trip to Washington for the party in the first place."

"You never saw her again?" Dana asked quietly.

"No. A few weeks before the war began, her husband gave his friends a tour of one of his new ships. She accompanied him. They took the ship out of the harbor. The captain and Anne's husband, wanting to show off its speed, pushed the engines for the first time. The boiler blew. The explosion killed Anne, along with her husband and several businessmen. You may have read about the accident in the newspaper."

Dana's back shifted against his front. He wrapped his arms tighter around her. 

"During the war, I’d sit beside the campfire and watch the flames and think if one thing had been different, she'd be alive. She might have had a chill and decided to stay in. Or if she waited on the dock as the men took the ship out, not wanting to be in the way. Or maybe, at my parents' party, I'd caught up with her, so the day her husband sailed the ship, she'd stayed home to write to me in secret. If I’d gone to her hotel room, she might have had a baby; she would have been with her child rather than on a ship. I thought of a multitude of maybes, Dana, but it didn't change the reality, however random and unnecessary her death. I wish..." He paused. "When she gave me her room key, I thought- I thought I did the right thing by leaving and by staying away. But after I read she had died, I've never been so sorry to have done the right thing. And I've done a multitude of 'right things' on which to base my judgment."

Dana’s ribcage rose and fell. 

"I can call myself a faithful husband to Melissa, but I had an affair in every way except what matters in court. No, I never touched Anne or spoke to her inappropriately. I was intimate with her in a different way. I didn’t need to touch her; I needed to know she was alive and cared about me and understood me. As much Anne meant something to me, Poppy meant nothing. Poppy was a few minutes of bad judgment and no more to me than skin deep. Anne - losing her ripped a piece of my heart out. I hurt her, Dana. Anne was my friend and I owed her the truth and instead I took the easy way out. Like you, she deserved more. If I cross paths with her in some future universe, maybe I can make it up to her, but I don't think that will ever happen. Some things happen once, and she was one of those things."

Far away, the northbound stream engine whistled again as it left the station, its belly heavy with white-hot coals.

"I wanted to tell you,” he confessed. “I never told anyone."

*~*~*~*

Mulder dressed quietly. He made coffee and drank it in a dark kitchen, and sat at his desk for several minutes, trying to compose a brief note to her by lamplight. In the end, the words wouldn't come, so he put the paper away and walked softly up the front stairs as the rest of the house slept.

In their bedroom, Dana had drifted to the other side of the bed, with one arm tucked under her pillow and the blankets draped across her hips. Mulder sat on the edge of the mattress and tried to pull the covers higher without waking her. 

"Did you want..." she asked softly, as he covered her with the blanket.

He wanted to believe time healed all wounds, including theirs.

"No," he whispered back, regardless of her question. "Sleep."

She moved closer to the center of the bed. He stretched out on the edge, laying on his side and propping his head up on his hand. Their bedroom was dim, and her face was the faintest outline of light and shadow. Her eyes remained closed, but she no more slept than he did.

"Dana," he said quietly, and she opened her eyes. "I do want something."

She watched him and waited.

"I want you to want me," he said softly. "Like you used to. Not out of obligation. I think you want that too."

"I do."

Dana shifted again, pulling the blankets higher.

"I can't change what happened," he told her. "All I know to do is mind my P's and Q's, and wait. I won't give you any reason to doubt me ever again. I'll be at work when I'm supposed to be; I'll be home when I'm supposed to be." He didn't know what else to promise, so he reached out to stroke her auburn hair. Eventually, he added, "I'm not Waterston. I am sorry."

"I know." 

He waited. A moment past before she spoke again. 

"I tell myself it should not matter. If someone took advantage of me, you would-"

"I'd kill him is what I'd do," he interrupted.

She propped her head up on her hand, mimicking his posture. "You said you were with her once at Harvard, but-"

"Almost," Mulder corrected as if it mattered. ‘Almost’ counted with cannons and horseshoes. Besides, at eighteen, the difference between 'almost' and 'did' could be seconds.

"But you are not an innocent lured into her evil clutches," she continued, her words soft but earnest in the pre-dawn violet-time. "You knew she told people you two were lovers. You knew she despised me. You knew she toyed with men, yet you let her stay, even after I objected. You said it was for Samuel, but I think you let Poppy stay because she reminded you of Sarah. I know it makes me sound like a trusting fool, but I do believe she took advantage of you - but I also cannot help but believe you put yourself in a position she could. Because you wanted her to. Passive adultery is like a lie of omission: prettier, but no less wrong." 

Mulder nodded slowly. After a few seconds, he admitted, "Fair enough."

Like most of Dana's statements, it was cohesive and difficult to dismiss. The facts, as she understood them, fit perfectly. Her words smarted because all she had wrong was the date.

He grew sick and tired of Dana being right.

She lay down again but she shrank back from him. 

He closed his eyes tightly, his head heavy against his hand. He felt like hailstones pelted him from all sides, leaving him bruised and sore and praying the end of the storm was in sight so he could begin to heal.

"I should not have said that," he heard her say.

"Yes," he responded quietly, "You should have. That's your job. To tell me the truth."

"Still, I-"

"No," he corrected. "Don't be."

He moved forward, kissing - rather than her lips - her bare shoulder. Her skin was cool and smooth under his mouth. She stayed still, not even breathing. 

Inside his mind, he heard the doctor's voice telling him, after Cally’s birth, he got a miracle. Mulder got his second chance with Dana, and this was what he did with it.

"I'll be home for lunch," he promised, getting up. 

He heard her exhale.

*~*~*~*

If one looked up his name in the Book of Dutiful, it had a star beside it and a notation 'see also: dutiful husband.' Mulder knew how to mind his manners; he'd never done it with Dana. She was resilient, self-reliant, and he'd been preoccupied with the newspaper, the aftermath of the war, his mother's health, Samuel. Dana didn't require the constant, gentle attentiveness Melissa had. Or he hadn't felt she merited it. Mulder tended to notice cliffs as he teetered at the edge of them, flailing his arms and trying to grasp the wind.

Although Dana still didn't have much of an appetite, they went out to dinner and made painful, stilted conversation about nothing of great importance. Before she could say anything, he sent her plate back to the kitchen, remembering she despised tomatoes. He saw her eyeing his carrots and fed her one with his fingers rather than fork. A man at the next table cleared his throat in disapproval, and their waiter looked appalled. Dana chewed, and Mulder winked at her mischievously.

Although she tired easily and the doctor advised against social outings, they accompanied Samuel to the opening of a new wing at the Smithsonian. Crowds still bothered his son, so Samuel wandered off with his young curator friend - who turned out to be real and the only other person more interested in the paintings than the party. In Sam's absence, Andrew Wilder's blonde wife asked Dana her opinion of a controversial male nude, knowing Dana knew little about art. Mrs. Wilder swished her lace fan, batted her eyes at Mulder, and asked if Dana cared for Greek sculpture. Had she been to Athens to see the ruins? Everyone who was anyone had seen the ruins, she added. 

Dana examined the marble statue, its genitals eye level with her, and responded, "No, but I think Greece must be quite cold." Mulder choked on his champagne, but other men started snickering when Mrs. Andrew Wilder looked bewildered and Mr. Andrew Wilder looked mortified. Dana blinked innocently, but Mulder knew better.

Mulder covered her with his coat when she fell asleep in the carriage, and put his arm around her awkwardly. He steered her to bed and helped her undress. They kissed, touched, murmured, made love until her orgasm came, and he pulled out before his. It was nice. Less than passion, but more than obligation.

He left for his office at six, putting a note on the nightstand saying he missed her and he'd be home at noon. He did miss her, and he did return home at noon. Dana seldom disturbed him at work, but Mulder urged her to have the groom drive her: to meet him for lunch, to ask a question, to have him sign a bank draft. Anything so she could see he was where he was supposed to be. He invited her for two weeks before she came, bringing Cally to show him her first tooth. He didn't grit his teeth as she talked with Byers, who glanced uncertainly at Mulder when she invited him to hold the baby. Dana asked Byers to Sunday dinner, and Mulder later reiterated the invitation. Byers came, bringing his wife and twin girls with him.

Mulder left his office at four each day and arrived in the kitchen to annoy the cook well before dinner. He took Saturdays and Sundays off. He went with Dana to the market, following with the basket as she shopped and not saying a word about all the fancy teas and soaps she bought. He drove her to Mass without complaint, and allowed Dana's priest to christen Cally. He bought her a hat. And another hat. A basket of French soaps and bath oils. A necklace. Another necklace. Earbobs. Anything else he saw in a store window he thought she'd like. The DC jewelers began licking their lips as he entered their shops.

Mulder signed the bank drafts, but he had Dana keep the ledgers so she knew where the all money went, not merely what he spent on the house. After dinner, he read Scientific American aloud and waded through the tongue-twisting articles in The Lancet. He rubbed her feet. He brought her hot tea made from her fancy tea leaves and asked about her day. He listened as she answered. The nights she asked if he was coming to bed, he did; the nights she didn't, he slept on the sofa. She asked fifteen out of twenty-one nights, which he felt an encouraging ratio. 

They'd made love seven times, been out to dinner or to the theater four. They attended one reception at the Smithsonian and had one warm evening they'd bundled up the girls, drafted Sam to drive, and gone for a buggy ride. Poppy had been mentioned zero times. On paper, the numbers looked positive.

Winter passed, but the hurt Poppy left behind was slower to remit. Mulder prayed he wasn't what Dana had given up - or given up on - for Lent, or if he was, comforted himself Easter approached. 

*~*~*~*

Mulder had been married half his life, and he'd learned some things should not be shared with his wife. Gentle honesty was a virtue; brutal honesty meant a man lacked foresight and imagination.

Dana did not need to know a whore ate his lunch.

A girl, really. Fourteen or fifteen. Frankie had been one of his newsboys for years, her sex concealed under knickers, a floppy cap, and dirt. She was an orphan making her way as best as she could, so to no one’s surprise, she’d discovered selling herself more profitable than selling Mulder’s newspapers. For pretty, desperate girls, prostitution was an alluring, if short-lived, career. DC had more streetwalkers than Methodists, but few over twenty years old.

The arrangement was innocent, but difficult to explain to a wife. 

Mulder often went home for lunch, so whatever Rebekah packed for him would have gone to waste. Instead, each morning, he left his lunch in one of the empty wooden crates at the mouth of the alley near The Evening Star. Each evening, the tin would be there with the silverware washed, the tin wiped out, and the linen napkin folded, ready for Mulder to take home. He might go weeks without seeing Frankie, and the only evidence she remained alive was his empty lunch container each evening. Mulder never tried to hide anything. Samuel knew, and sometimes contributed his own lunch. Byers knew. Rebekah and Dana thought Frohike ate it, and Mulder saw no reason to tell either woman any different.

"Maybe she doesn't work on Good Friday," Samuel offered, leaning against a lamp pole as they waited.

Mulder stood on tiptoe to see as far into the dark alley as possible without entering it. The tall buildings on either side blocked out the sunlight, so the cobblestones were slick with green moss and old garbage. Pickpockets, prostitutes, and pimps lurked in the shadows like spiders waiting for their prey, and the alley smelled of whiskey, urine, and sour dampness.

"No, we're early. I'll tell Rebekah I forgot it," Mulder decided. "I'll get it Monday."

Growing up among reporters and politicians, Samuel wasn't innocent of the city's dark underbelly, but an errant lunch tin didn't merit a father-son outing down Rum Row.

Mulder turned to leave, and Sam pushed off the lamppost as footsteps approached. 

Frankie seemed surprised to see Sam with Mulder, but smiled warmly and smoothed her dirty dress and straggly hair. She apologized for making them wait. Instead of handing the tin to Mulder, she put it on a crate and stepped back so he didn't have to come near her to pick it up. Frankie stayed in the shadowy alley, so passersby assumed they either talked to a crate or relieved themselves.

Mulder had seen her at the loading docks behind The Evening Star, and been surprised at how brazenly she propositioned the men. Frankie offered herself to Mulder once, shyly, a year ago - possibly one of the first men she approached - and he'd have laughed if he hadn't been so embarrassed. Mulder gave her his lunch instead. The next morning, Frankie waited in front of the newspaper building to return the tin. She'd still looked too skinny, so Mulder gave Frankie his lunch again, and a tradition was born.

"Your face's healin' real good," she observed, seeming more comfortable talking to Samuel. If Sam wasn't making forts under his grandfathers' desks in Congress, he spent his childhood playing with newsboys and printers' apprentices, so Samuel knew Frankie when she was still a boy. "The scar makes you look dangerous." 

"Do you think so?" Sam answered, liking the sound of that.

Mulder rolled his eyes. Young or old, rich or poor, the ladies liked Sam.

"I do," Frankie said. "I got something that would help it, though. It's back at my flat. Mr. Mulder..."

Mulder opened his mouth to decline, but her eyes asked him to come with her, cutting back and forth between him and Sam. He looked at her in stern disapproval. Frankie knew better than to proposition him, especially in front of his son.

"My stepmother has something she puts on it. Thank you, though," Sam responded. He stepped back, looking uncomfortable. 

"Mr. Mulder, will you talk to me? Alone?"

"No," he said firmly.

"Please," she pleaded. "I don't mean nothing by it."

"I told you no. Let's go, Sam-"

An unsteady figure approached behind Frankie, swaying drunkenly as she made her way through the wooden crates. Frankie glanced back at her, and at Mulder.

"Sammy, go home," Mulder amended. "Tell Dana I'm a few minutes behind you." 

His son had been ambling away, but turned, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. 

"I'll be home for dinner," Mulder added. "Go on. I- I forgot something in my office."

Samuel wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Father, don't."

"Go," Mulder mumbled. He focused on the tall, slim figure behind Frankie. "Get out of here, Sam. Hurry up."

Samuel slouched away, glancing over his shoulder worriedly. Mulder didn't move until Sam was out of sight. "I thought you went north," he said, stepping into the alley. "Did he get tired of you?"

Poppy stared at him, glassy-eyed. She looked gaunt, hollow-eyed, and had her dress unbuttoned so low most of her breasts showed. April nights still brought frost and even snow in DC, but she was barefooted. Her long black hair hung in dirty clumps. 

"You looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy asked, slurring her words. Her face twitched but resumed its drunken stare.

"She gets mixed up," Frankie explained. "I been lettin' her stay with me - help out with the rent, you know - and yesterday she said she know'd Fox Mulder. Used to know you real friendly, you understand. Got a baby and all. I didn't know if that was true, and I didn't want her embarrassin' you in front of your boy."

"Thank you, Frankie," Mulder answered without looking away from Poppy. "You can go."

Frankie, likely accustomed to being dismissed, left quickly, vanishing down the dark alley and into the labyrinth of tenements and slums.

"You looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy repeated.

"Where's your flat?" he heard his voice say.

"Something wrong with right here?"

"I'll pay," Mulder responded, knowing the magic words.

She shrugged and turned, drunkenly leading the way into the dirty shadows. Although the alley was less than a block from his office, he'd never been past the mouth of it. Nice people didn't like being accosted on the street, but the police left prostitutes alone as long as they stayed in the alleys. Like being in Murder Bay, any man who stepped off Pennsylvania Avenue did so for an illicit reason.

Poppy weaved a path across the slimy cobblestones, turned left, and navigated a series of narrow passages. Mulder followed her up some steps, under a low archway, and through a wooden door and into a run-down brick building.

"My room's this way." She pushed open another door and walked down a dim hall. She kept one hand on the peeling wall to steady herself.

Mulder swallowed and followed, glancing around and wishing he’d brought his revolver. Whatever the building once was, it had been divided into dozens of ten by ten flats, most without windows, and some be reached by crossing through someone else's room. The hallway reeked of alcohol and sweat, and he heard snores through the walls; many of the tenants, like wolves, slept during the day and came out to feed on the public at night.

Poppy entered a door without knocking, and Mulder followed. They crossed through a flat containing an unconscious old man, and another flat occupied by a large family with diapers hung to dry on lines strung across the room. The mother sat beside a stove, nursing a baby bigger than Cally and staring at the fire. She didn't seem to notice them.

Poppy and Frankie's room was tinier and darker than the previous ones. Mulder saw a soiled mattress on the floor, a table with a dishpan, few dirty dishes, and a lamp on it, and a rickety wooden chair. A curtain hung from the low ceiling, cordoning off one corner. There was a bucket, a stove, and a slop jar in another corner.

She turned toward him, starting on the rest of the buttons of her dress. "You want this off?" 

"Poppy, do you know who I am?"

She nodded, still struggling to unbutton the front of her bodice. "Fox. You want this off?"

"No, I want to know what you've done with Sadie. Where is she?"

"You want her?"

"I want you to tell me where she is. Does Alex have her?"

"You want me. You love me," she said, having trouble articulating her words. "Not now, but you did."

"No, I don't love you. I've never loved you. And if I ever said I wanted you, I was mistaken."

"You do; you did," she insisted. "You wrote it to me."

"I wrote what to you?" 

She fumbled her pocket and produced fragments of a note so worn they looked like cloth instead of paper. She put them on the table, rearranging them like puzzle pieces. Mulder recognized the messy script as his, but couldn't tell what he'd written or imagine why he'd write anything to Poppy, who couldn't read.

"I know what it says. I remember. It says 'Passing stranger, you do not know how-"

"How longingly I have looked upon you. You must be she I was seeking. You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my beard, breast, and hands in return. I will see to it I do not lose you,'" he quoted. "I wrote to Dana, not to you. Where did you get that?"

"It was in your coat pocket. You gave your coat to me. You wanted me to find it."

"When did I give you my coat?" he demanded. Nothing between he and Dana was any of this nasty, manipulative woman's business - especially not love letters. He wanted to make sure Alex had Sadie, and to wipe the memory of Poppy Kavanaugh out of his mind and off his body. "I never wanted you to find anything. That's none of your business. I-"

Her face twitched again. The spasm spread down her shoulder and arm, and took several seconds before it subsided. 

"Syphilis." Mulder forgot whatever he'd intended to say. The confusion, the spasms, clumsy movements, slurred speech: "Oh my God. You aren't drunk; you have syphilis. You've had it- you've had it a long time."

Late-stage syphilis took years to gestate, so soldiers who contracted it early in the war had begun to die. Most assumed once their fever, stiffness, headache, and lesions went away, they were cured, but the disease had turned and silently attacked their hearts and brains. Hospitals held wards of afflicted ex-soldiers, but most prostitutes didn't live long enough to show the end-stage symptoms.

"You do, don't you?"

Poppy looked away.

"Don't you?" he demanded. "And you knew."

"Don't tell Sam," she mumbled.

Mulder heard movement behind the curtain. Little fingers pulled back the edge as brown eyes peeked out. 

He opened his wallet and emptied it contents on the battered table. One hundred, eighty-six dollars and - he fished through his pockets - ninety-two cents. It would pay for a flat, a doctor, and buy as much morphine and whiskey as she wanted as her body and brain succumbed to the disease. 

Without a word, Mulder pushed the curtain aside, picked up Sadie, and started to walk out. As he reached the doorway, he turned back. Mulder snatched the faded scraps of his note to Dana off of the table and shoved them in his pocket as he left. Poppy didn't try to stop him.

*~*~*~*

Mulder kept his promise; he arrived in time for dinner. 

Half of Washington saw him standing on Pennsylvania Avenue holding Sadie, and the other half saw him at the door of the orphanage, looking at the hungry, dirty faces and trying to make himself leave her. The gossip would spread as fast as the streetcar, and he'd rather tell Dana before someone else did.

Sam sat at the kitchen table, holding Cally and keeping a nervous eye on the back door. Rebekah stood in front of the stove. They turned as Mulder came in, and stared at the filthy child he carried. Sam got up in surprise, laid Cally in her cradle, and continued staring at his father.

Rebekah surveyed Mulder’s face, then Sadie. "You're a fool, Fox," she said icily. She turned and continued stirring the pot.

Rapid footsteps pitter-pattered down the hall, accompanied by gleeful shrieks as Emily escaped her mother's efforts at dressing her and ran naked for Sam's arms. Samuel stooped to pick her up, but turned back to his father, still too stunned to speak.

Dana followed, laughing and calling playfully for Emily to come back, come back. Dana stopped short at Mulder holding Sadie. Her mouth hung open. She slowly lowered the clean dress and diaper she must have planned to put on Emily. In a cradle near the stove, Cally gurgled happily.

Mulder said quietly, "Dana, we need to talk." 

*~*~*~*

As a last resort, Mulder told her the truth. Dana sat calmly in the library and listened as he explained he didn't remember what happened in Louisville, and he never considered Sadie might be his until Poppy had claimed so Christmas morning. He still had doubts. He hadn't meant to mislead Dana, but she misunderstood and he hadn't corrected her. He promised he'd find a nice family to take care of Sadie, and Dana would never see her again, but he wouldn't have a child starve in an orphanage or live in filth.

Dana nodded. She excused herself and went upstairs. Mulder stopped to check Sadie got a bath and something to eat. 

He reached their bedroom to discover Dana packing.

"Whether she's mine or not-" As Mulder argued, he took clothes out of the valise as soon as she put them in. Dana packed her clothes, not his. "Mine or not, she's Sarah and Melissa's niece. Her mother will be dead in a matter of months. Weeks, maybe. Do you expect me to walk away? She's not even three years old. She's a slow, helpless child. How can you be so cold?"

"Yes, she is a child," Dana agreed evenly. She closed the valise and fastened the latch. "But you, Mr. Mulder, are an ass."

*~*~*~*

Mulder hadn't expected Dana to be delighted, but he thought she'd understand. He’d explained he'd never been unfaithful to her. Sadie was a year and a half old when Mulder married Dana. As Samuel once described it, she was a leftover obligation. Mulder hadn't loved her mother, he hadn't wanted to be with her mother, but it didn't change his responsibility.

Mulder had to stand in front of the bedroom door to keep Dana from leaving.

"Get out of my way," she ordered through her teeth.

"Where is it you think you're going?"

"Away from you."

"For how long?"

"Forever. Maybe longer."

"You're-" She reached for the knob. Mulder blocked her hand. "You're serious?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously.

"Didn't you hear me?" he insisted. "I don't remember being with Poppy. I can't even swear it happened, but if it did, it happened years ago."

"I asked you to get out of my way," she repeated, trying for the knob again. He grabbed her wrist, and they struggled. "Let go of me!" she demanded, but he didn't.

"Listen! I-I-I-I've never been unfaithful to you. I've never even wanted to. I didn't tell you about Sadie because I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry. I love you. I don't love Poppy. I've never loved Pop-"

Dana jerked out of Mulder’s grasp and tried to get to the door again. In desperation, he grabbed both her wrists and pushed her back against the bed, holding her there. 

"Stop it! Listen to me! I'm sorry I lied, but I love-"

"A man came yesterday. A landlord," she told him coolly. "He had a bill for rent on a flat near your office. I thought it was for Miss Clara Barton, but he said he did not know Miss Barton. He would not tell me for whom the rooms were rented - only that you rented the flat after Christmas. For a woman. I put the bill on your desk, but told him he was mistaken."

Mulder let go of her hands and stepped back. "I, I told Poppy to rent a flat and I'd pay for it. Christmas morning. I didn't know she'd rented one."

She shook her head.

"Dana, that's the truth!"

"Whose truth? Which version of the truth? Whatever is most convenient? Whatever will pacify me?"

"I knew you'd look at Poppy and see Dori, look at me and see Waterston. I was trying not to hurt you!"

"Well, you failed," she barked. "I do not want to hear about any more errant notes or misunderstandings or oversights or whatever else you can conjure up. You are a good storyteller and I was gullible, but you can save your breath. I want to get my girls and leave."

Despite her angry words, her forehead wrinkled, and she sniffed as she struggled not to cry.

He swallowed, trying to get the lump in his throat to go down. If he was Dana, he wouldn't believe him either. Mulder grasped at the closest straw. "Not if you're going to have a baby."

"I am not."

"You're not certain. You can't be certain. And you're not taking my girls anywhere."

"Why not? You have a plethora."

He shook his head. As his wife, Dana legally belonged to him. Any income she generated belonged to him. She couldn't write a bank draft, transfer a title, or sign a contract without his permission. She couldn't divorce him without his consent. If she left, he could send a bounty hunter to bring her back. His family's name was on the guest list at the White House; if Mulder and Dana went to court over Cally, Dana would lose.

"You can't take Cally. You can't feed her, and you can't pay her wet nurse to go with you. I'm not supporting Emmy unless you say she's mine, which means you can't take her either. If you leave tonight, you're leaving alone."

Mulder understood as much as, "How dare you!" before Dana switched to Gaelic, so angry he flinched and so loudly the neighbors could follow along.

He stepped back again and leaned against the bedroom door. He wiped his nose on his sleeve repeatedly and focused on the ceiling. Dana was short; she couldn't see him crying if he looked up. Mulder might be an ass, and he might be desperate, but he wouldn’t force Dana to stay.

"Wait a month. If there's no baby, you can leave,” he said hoarsely. “I'll buy you a house here or you can take Emily anywhere within a day's train ride of DC. You can see Cally whenever you want. I'll-"

"What about Samuel?"

"Sam has wanted me to divorce you for months."

Mulder heard the beginning of a sob followed by controlled silence. He knew Dana. If it killed her, she wouldn’t start bawling in front of him.

"I'll pay for whatever you want," he continued shakily. "If you still want a divorce, a legal separation- Stay another month. I won't bother you. I won't even speak to you."

"What if there is a baby?"

"I, uh..." He didn’t want to contemplate the possibility. He took a breath and answered, "You will have to stay until it's born."

"This baby - you would take it as well?"

"You would not take it with you if you left, no," he responded.

"I despise you," she told him icily.

"Yes, I know." 

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XIII

Begin: Paracelsus XIV

*~*~*~*

Dear Dana,

All my life I had everything I should have wanted and yet, deep inside myself, I yearned for more.

My father raised me to be the next Julius Caesar. Until his death, Father believed I'd come to my senses and follow the destiny he'd envisioned. He'd roll his eyes and call me a romantic and an idealist, but he never turned his back on me. Though I gave him good reason. Father never failed me if I needed him, but I never knew how much I needed him until he died. My mother never understood my world of books and philosophy, but Mother welcomed me into her world of society and pretty appearances. My parents loved each other passionately, and I was their precious son. Each loved the reflection of the other they saw in me, and they loved me, but I wonder if they ever saw me for who I truly am.

I married too young, but many men do. I married for the wrong reasons, but many men do. I had a child before I finished being one myself, but many men do. If I was unhappy, it was no one's fault but my own. Melissa would have picked up my footprints and bronzed them, if she could have. Sarah was dead, so I loved my Sam, and I tried to adore his mother as much as she adored me.

Life slipped by. One day blended politely into another. I played my role, supplied my lines, and drifted farther and farther from the person I intended to be. 

They say on the Great Plains, buffalo herds stretched as far as a man can see. Once, Samuel and I saw a buffalo at a circus, and we talked about what it would be like to see a hundred thousand of them at once. Same was seven, I was twenty-four, and he asked if we could go west and see the buffalo before they were gone. I said "perhaps" and bought him too much candy because I was too much of a coward to say we never would. My family would never say to Hell with civilization, pack our saddlebags, and ride off into the sunset. We would never go to the Paris opera house, spit over the edge of our box, and look innocent as the people below cursed us in French. We would never be anything but the beautiful, too-tight role society expected of us.

I began to content myself with that, and you can't know how much it frightened me. No - yes, you can know. I know you, Dana, whether you want me to or not, as you know me. 

Then it was all gone. My world, along with every other American's, came to an end, yet my life continued. I was a remnant, and for the first time since I was sixteen, I wasn't Melly's husband or Sam's father or Bill and Teena Mulder's son. As much as I ached for them, for the first time, I could be anyone I wanted, but I'd forgotten who I'd wanted to be. I wrote to Melissa I was Diogenes: roaming the Earth, holding my lantern up in the darkness, and searching for someone to tell me the truth.

A man should be careful what he looks for. One day, Dana, a familiar soul stepped into my path, and I can tell you in all honesty I will never be the same. Each time I swore I would return to Washington and yet found my horse pointed toward Dr. Waterston's plantation, I had a dozen practical explanations, some even believable. You are better with practicality, Dana. You asked why I kept coming back, and I lied and said, "To fix the hole in your barn roof and split more kindling, Ma'am." I asked why you kept letting me come back, and you said, "You bring me coffee beans, Mr. Mulder."

For a man who convinced himself he wasn't in love with you that summer and fall, I will say this: in Georgia, after the war, coffee beans sold for fifty dollars an ounce, love. Fifty dollars an ounce. Gold cost forty, flour thirty, and pretty young women - without husbands and babies and holes in their barn roof – went for roughly ten cents. I wrote a bank draft and bought a pound of coffee beans, Dana.

Despite what I tried to tell myself, loving you wasn't a product of reasoning and practical statistics, or of loneliness and lust. It just came and refused to explain itself. It was a truth inside my self; I only had to discover it. I love you. I did then; I do to this day. And, laugh if you like, but I am sure I have loved you in a dozen lifetimes before this one.

Long ago, a scientist named Paracelsus wrote man is not body; the heart, the spirit is man, and each spirit is part of a larger whole. One soul connects with another - however briefly - like two metals fused by fire, and both are forever transformed. 

'Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I have looked upon you. You must be she I was seeking. You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my beard, breast, and hands in return. I will see to it I do not lose you.' I wrote that to you once, Dana, but you never received it. I wonder how our time together would have been different if you had.

You bring courage and color and balance to my life. My world with you is vivid; my world without you is gray. You made me feel whole, and I made you feel second best. I went chasing fireflies when I wanted fireworks, and I can only say I am sorry. You were never second best. No one ever has or ever will touch the place you do in my soul. If I mistook what I felt for a lesser love, trust I had little previous acquaintance with the emotion. 

I loved Sarah, but I was a boy playing at love. As a man I clung to secret dreams of a life I had long outgrown. I have put away my childish things, Dana. If I could open my heart and show you inside it, you would believe me, but I cannot. Each life has a finite number of second-chances, and I used mine up long ago.

Forms change, times change, but we are all parts of an evolving whole, and souls do not forget each other. We have met before, Dana, and I, like Paracelsus, believe we will meet again. In some future world, if we pass on the street, I pray I have the sense to stop, grin sarcastically, and ask, "Where have you been all my lives?" You will look up at me with those big blue eyes and answer in your logical manner, "Right underneath your nose, Mulder."

I have been fortunate to share my path through life with several remarkable people, and truly blessed you have been one of them. Our time was short, but know I love you eternally. If you look, you will find that spark of my love inside you. There are many sparks and many paths - some well-trodden and some only followed once. Feel my love and carry it with you through the darkness, because I will find you, even in infinity. 

As you told me once, death does not stop love. I will never forget you; you are burned into my soul and I am forever transformed. I will scan the crowds, searching for the one who holds the other half of who I am, because until I find you again, half of me is missing. The rest is silence. I cannot hold you, but the hardest thing I have ever done - I will ever do - is let you go.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Follow your heart, wise men said.

At fifteen, Mulder’s heart said Sarah, to everyone's approval. Sarah was the girl next door, his best friend, and his confidant. Their marriage would unite two old, powerful families. His father liked her, seeing her as a pretty, well-bred asset to his son's political future. His mother doted on Sarah as the daughter she'd longed for, and Sarah returned the affection. At fifteen, as a boy struggling to find his place in his father's shadow, Mulder felt grateful he happened to love a girl who met both his parents' and society's expectations in every way.

At sixteen, still numb from Sarah's death, his heart said Melissa. She was breathtakingly beautiful, sweet, and heartbreakingly alone. And pregnant. And Sarah's little sister. And in love with him. Mulder shrugged off the voice of reason, thinking the things about Melly that bothered him would change after they were married. In fourteen years, she demanded little except care and superficial affection, and she knew so little of who he really was.

At thirty-one and as the world seemed to be ending, Mulder’s heart whispered Dana. He found her the way a compass finds north - a primitive, mysterious pull from a force he couldn't understand or control. Inexperienced at true love, he mistook it for lust and friendship: both safer emotions. Regardless, for the first time in his life, Mulder gave in and let the tide take him where it would. To his surprise, the sky hadn't fallen. They were happy. Or at least, he was happy and Dana had given a convincing performance.

Then Sam. Mulder’s heart told him to keep searching - Samuel was out there in the darkness, alone, hurting. A lost soul. Sam was lost, but he didn’t want to be found. Mulder brought home a traumatized boy-soldier to a pregnant stepmother, and been perplexed everyone hadn't lived happily ever after.

Then Poppy. As his last link to Sarah, Mulder tolerated her increasingly erratic behavior, believing Sam needed her. Mulder’s heart told him Poppy loved Samuel more than she resented Dana's place in Mulder’s life. And in his bed. He’d been wrong.

Then Sadie. An unwanted bastard child in a sea of unwanted bastard children. Mulder’s heart ached, unsure what to do except hurt.

Each choice seemed like the right choice. The only choice, sometimes. Each time, Mulder followed his heart, only to realize too late his heart couldn't read a map.

*~*~*~*

When the minister tried to console him after Sarah's funeral, Mulder asked what God let fifteen-year old girls die. The minister hadn't been able to answer to his satisfaction, and that had been the end of Mulder's regular patronage of any church. He went for Melissa's sake, or if Sam or his mother asked him, but seldom of his own accord. He found God in sunrises and newborn babies and one more morning with his wife, not in a pew. He'd considered going this morning, though, looking for comfort in the rituals from childhood. He sent Dana to Mass and Sam to Easter services instead, and he moped around the house until the silence became deafening.

Dana looked displeased to find Mulder outside the church, waiting to pick her up after Mass. "Where is the groom?" she asked.

Mulder secured the reins on the dash and set the brake. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and climbed down. The horses sensed the tension in the air and shifted nervously. He patted one's haunches, and left his hand on the harness as he said hesitantly, "I sent him home. Let me help you up."

Dana’s posture indicated she'd rather fall to her death than have him put a hand on her, so Mulder let her climb into the buggy by herself. She kept her hands in her lap and her eyes straight ahead as he climbed up, ignoring the stares from the other parishioners as they emerged from church.

It was a nice, juicy scandal. Not being with the Negro help but bringing the resulting child home to his wife. He was Bill Mulder's boy, so society chalked it up to another example of his lechery and bad judgment. They gossiped and forgave. But instead of being sympathetic to Dana as the wronged wife, Washington smirked and snidely muttered, “I told you so.”

Fox Mulder, the epitome of the devoted, adoring husband during Lent, obviously wasn't. Dana was a fool to believe her husband would be faithful to any woman, let alone her. Society thought it a good joke and didn't hesitate to laugh. Ladies who'd barely acknowledge Dana in public dropped in for tea or invited her to go shopping or came to admire Cally. The gossips sharpened their knives, expecting a tearful scene, but got tea and little else. Dana held her head high, said Cally was sleeping, declined the shopping invitations, and answered "yes, Miss Poppy's daughter is staying with us." Even the most brazen among the women didn't dare ask, and the ladies left, bewildered.

Dana hadn't flinched, but in two days, to Mulder’s knowledge, she hadn't eaten or slept either. 

"How was Mass?" he asked, searching for something to talk about.

He saw her chest rise and fall. He promised he wouldn't bother her, wouldn't even speak to her. He was breaking the agreement, but they couldn't live under the same roof and ignore each other. He couldn't stand by and wait to see if the stork bought him another nine months with her. If he could get her to do anything - cry, yell, scream - he at least had a toehold.

"This is not the way home, Mr. Mulder."

"No, it's not," he answered.

"Where are we going?"

"A side trip."

"I would like to go home." 

"I will take you home. I'm taking a different path." She started to say he wasn't even headed in the right direction, but he cut her off. "My Uncle Ronald's widow will take Sadie. I sent her a telegram Saturday morning. Auntie has a big house on Rhode Island, and someone's on their way to get Sadie. I’m sorry to have embarrassed you, and sorry you had to oversee her care these last few days. After Tuesday, you won't see her again."

Dana continued staring at her hands. "Will you?" 

Each word was electrically charged, and he considered his response carefully. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I want her to be taken care of, but I don't know if I want to see her again. No, I won't see her unless I must."

He watched Dana out of the corner of his eye. She looked up, swallowed, and turned her head away from him. "Even if she is yours?"

"Cally is mine. Emmy is mine. Sam is mine. Sadie... She's not mine. Not in the same sense. Even if she's my blood, it frightens me how little I feel for her."

"That does not seem fair."

"Find one fair thing in this mess, Dana," he responded.

A block past The Evening Star, he stopped the buggy in front of a boarding house. Dana looked at him as he walked around to help her down, not budging. "This is the address on the landlord's bill. I want you to see it."

"This is Poppy's flat?"

"This is the address on the bill. She doesn't live here. Will you go in?"

He wasn't sure she would, but Dana nodded and let him help her down. The front door was unlocked, and opened to a small foyer. A family occupied the first floor, and wooden and metal toys were scattered around their door. A narrow staircase led to the upstairs and attic flats. The first door opened when Mulder tried it.

The rooms were bright, clean, airy, and nicely furnished. The flat had a sitting room, a bedroom, and a small kitchen with a stove. He opened a few drawers – all empty. The drawers contained no clothing and the pantry no food. No one lived in the rooms. The flat was nicer than Poppy could have afforded, but Mulder had been paying. He also suspected part of the appeal had been the view; the kitchen window overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, kitty-corner from the front door of The Evening Star.

"She must have rented it Christmas Day, right after she told me about Sadie, but changed her mind and gone north with Alex. I'd say they tried to make the deadline for Spender to be eligible for the Massachusetts Senate. When Spender wasn't nominated, they returned, but by then - or soon after - Poppy and Alex parted and she forgot about the flat. Or she assumed I changed my mind about paying for it once she quit her job."

Dana stood in the center of the sitting room. She turned slowly.

"Does that sound logical?" he asked tentatively, trying to sound scientific instead of desperate. 

"Many things can sound logical, Mr. Mulder," she answered, but her voice didn't sound so razor-sharp.

He put his hands in his pockets, wiggling his fingers nervously. "Dana, I've been thinking about something. Wondering. The morning before you came to my office and told me you were expecting Cally, were roses delivered to the house?"

She wrinkled her forehead. "I think so. Why do you ask?"

"Who were they for?"

"For Poppy. I do remember; they were white roses. There was a card, I think, but I didn't see it. I don't know who sent them. She didn't say."

"I sent them. I sent them to you, Dana. She intercepted them, assuming they were hers, I think. She assumed the note I wrote was meant for her."

"Why would she assume?"

Before Mulder could answer, a man stuck his head through the open doorway, squinting at them and asking what their business was. Mulder explained it was his name on the bill and, playing a hunch, asked the landlord to tell Dana who'd physically rented the flat. The landlord hedged, and Mulder asked again.

The landlord glanced around and timidly answered, "You, sir."

"Me?"

"You and the tall, pretty woman. Colored, Indian - I dunno, but she was a looker. Had a little one with her I took to be yours."

Dana watched the landlord intently, but turned her back and instead looked out the window at the busy street.

"Me? No, it had to be Alex. I wasn't with her. Dana, Alex was with her. Not me. I spent Christmas at the house with you." He turned back to the landlord. "Couldn't it have been another man? Tall, dark hair, dark eyes? One arm? Alex?"

"Could be," the landlord responded, unfortunately a little too quickly. "Probably was, in fact. Almost certainly was, sir. Don't see so well, myself."

"Show me the lease," Mulder demanded. "If I rented it, show me my signature on the lease."

"It ain't got no signature on it. Just an X. I wrote the rest."

"Exactly. I can read and write. Poppy can't, and Alex barely can. Dana, why would I sign an X if I can write?"

"Keep folks from knowing you's payin' the rent, I suppose," the landlord postulated.

"No one asked you," Mulder snapped. "Was she ever here again? Poppy? After the day it was rented, was anyone ever here again?"

"Not to my knowing, sir," the landlord supplied, sounding wholly unconvincing. "I don't go sticking my nose where it don't belong."

"You live downstairs! Of course you'd know."

"I will wait in the-" Dana said, turning to leave.

Mulder grabbed her arm. "No, wait. Don't. I can- I can prove..." He looked around the cheery yellow room, trying to think of a way to verify his story. "Come with me."

The alley was half a block away. Down the cobblestones, left, and through a labyrinth of narrow passages between the buildings. Up the steps, under the stone archway, and through the back door of the old factory he'd followed Poppy into Friday afternoon. He heard Dana panting as he led her down the filthy hall, still gripping her wrist like a drowning man. Through the first flat, and the second, with the same woman and baby beside the coal stove, and into Poppy and Frankie's dingy room.

"Here," Mulder announced triumphantly. "This is where Poppy lives. This is where I found Sadie. She was behind this curtain. Her mother brings men back here with her daughter on the other side of this curtain. Sadie was dirty and hungry and her diaper hadn't been changed in hours. Look around. There's no food, there's no fire. If, if Poppy was my mistress, even a discarded mistress, do you think I would let her and her daughter live here? Do you?"

"No," Dana said softly. Neither of them would let a dog live in this room.

"Poppy has syphilis. She must have had it for years, and it's killing her. It might be why Sadie barely talks. But I don't have it. You don't. If I'd been with Poppy - three years or three nights ago - I'd have it."

"Not always," she said. "In The Lancet-"

"Do you honestly think my luck's that good? Dana, it's spread to her brain. Poppy's high strung and she's had a hard life. I'm not saying she's a saint, but she wouldn't hurt Sam. Me, but not Sam. To tell him Melissa's in Hell, and she and I were lovers - Poppy's changed. I talked to her Friday, and she barely knew me. Some daydream she's had about me secretly loving her all these years has gotten twisted inside her head until she believes it."

She looked around the dingy room.

"Dana, do you believe me?"

"I-I do not know," she said tiredly.

"All right. Fair enough. I wanted you to see the flat, to hear me out. I'll take you home."

Although the narrow hall made it awkward and there was little for her to stumble over, he kept his hand on her arm as he guided her out of the old factory. As they reached the back of the run-down building, Mulder squinted as the door opened and a teenage girl entered, humming to herself. Frankie grinned and started to speak to Mulder, but saw Dana, closed her mouth and lowered her gaze. She slid past them. 

Dana turned to watch Frankie enter the same room they'd exited.

"You know her," Dana observed as they reached the stone archway. "The girl in the hallway. She knew you. That was her flat. She was happy to see you."

"I'll explain later. This isn't the place for us to stop and chat."

"It is her flat. Not Poppy's. You knew how exactly to find it in that maze."

"Yes, it's her flat. Her name is Frankie. Poppy's staying with her." Mulder kept an eye on all the other eyes watching them from the shadows.

"How did you know?"

"Dana, come on," he urged, but she refused. "I know Frankie because she used to be one of my newsboys. Before she did what she does now. I see her, sometimes. I saw her Friday as I was leaving work," he explained impatiently.

"That does not make sense. This," she gestured to the rotting urban Hell around them, "is not in the line of sight from The Evening Star. This is not between the newspaper's front door and ours."

"I was in the alley with Frankie." He added quickly, "It's not like it sounds. I give her my lunch, somedays. Most days. I was getting the tin back so you and Rebekah wouldn't scold me, and Sam and I were talking to her. I saw Poppy. Frankie said Poppy was staying with her."

"You had Samuel with you?"

"Well, Sam knows her," he defended himself. "I sent him away."

"Samuel came slouching home and said you forgot something at the office. I knew he lied, but I thought you'd put him up to it so you could stop at the jeweler's again."

"I did put him up to it, but because I was with Frankie," he argued. "Not 'with' Frankie, but talking with her. I saw Poppy and I didn't want Sam seeing her. Dana, I'm telling you the truth."

"Where is Poppy?"

"I don’t know. I gave her some money-"

"You gave her money?" Dana said in disbelief. "You told me she took advantage of you, could have given you syphilis, lied about being your mistress, lied about having your child, lied to your son, and you gave her money? How much money?"

"One hundred, eighty-six dollars..." He mumbled, slouching guiltily. A great deal of money, especially to a two-dollar whore. 

"One hundred, eighty-six dollars..." she prompted.

"And ninety-two cents." His 'tell the truth' plan wasn't working out as he'd envisioned.

Dana's cheekbones stood out, and the purple shadows under her eyes looked even darker. "I want to go home," she requested.

"All right," he said, taking her arm again.

She jerked away, telling him not to touch her.

*~*~*~*

He had a new plan. He would stay at her heels and protest his innocence and stupidity until she believed him. Since tact, judgment, and honesty didn't seem to be his strengths, he'd try tenacity. Dana stopped listening about 13th Street, but he kept talking - all the way home, up the stairs, and into their bedroom, which he hadn't set foot in since Good Friday. As he pleaded his case to deaf ears, Dana stood in front of the dresser mirror, angrily unpinning her hat and the brooch she'd worn to Easter Mass.

"Dana, I'm telling you the truth," Mulder insisted, sounding petulant. "I am. Why won't you believe me?"

She looked at the brooch and closed her fingers around it.

"Dana, I love you. Only you. With all my heart. And body. There's no one else, and certainly not Poppy or Frankie. Yes, lying to you was wrong, but now I'm telling the truth. I don't know what else I can say or do to convince you."

Her eyes closed and her forehead crinkled like she was about to cry. He stepped toward her. "Dana," he said softly, comfortingly. "You haven't slept. You haven't-"

In one fluid move, Dana turned and hurled the expensive ivory brooch at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. "How dare you," she shouted. She sent her earbobs through the air after the brooch. "How can you possibly be such an ass!"

"Dana-" Mulder raised his hands to shield himself as she flung her stupid little hat and the hatpin at him as well. She opened her jewelry box and grabbed randomly, hurling a sapphire necklace, a ring, another necklace, and in frustration, the whole mahogany box.

"Do you know," she continued loudly, jerking open the wardrobe and throwing a high-heeled slipper at him, "how much I want to believe you? How much I want to believe you are the innocent, flawed, knight-in shining-armor and this is all a big-"

The other dainty slipper. "Mis-" 

A walking boot. "Under-"

The other boot. "Standing!"

A black silk evening dress, which didn't make it far. In exasperation, she picked it up and threw it again, and kicked it after it fell to the floor.

"You are my husband. Do you know how much I do not want it to be true?" she yelled. Dana grabbed a heavy feather pillow off the bed and hurled it at him. "Do you know how much I want to believe you, regardless of every bit of evidence to the contrary? Do you?"

"It isn't true," he insisted. "It's not. I told you the truth!"

"Which time?" Mulder saw angry tears spill from the corners of her eyes. "Do you even know the truth? Why not say she is Melissa's niece? That is the truth, and who fathered her makes no difference to anyone but you and me. If you do not believe Poppy's story, why tell me Sadie might be your daughter?"

"I don't know."

"Because either she is yours, or you want her to be," she supplied. 

"I do not," he answered.

"Why did you bring Sadie here in front of everyone? Rub my nose in it, as you say. You could have said business called you out of town, taken her to a hotel, and I would never have known. You do not want her and you do not want her to live here, so why did you bring her home? Why hurt me for no reason?"

"I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you the truth, however awful it was. I don't like lying to you."

"Then tell me the truth! Bed half the city, if you want, but tell me the truth!"

"I am! I did." She moved to throw another pillow, but he grabbed her wrist. She pounded on his chest with her other hand until he caught it as well. "Dana, stop. You'll make yourself sick."

"I married you," she said tearfully, struggling to get free. "Not on paper or in name; we took vows before God. I promised until I died, there would be only you. You promised the same thing."

"There is only you," he responded loudly.

"There was never only me," she shouted back. "You will never let there be only me. There are ghosts and skeletons and quests and contrived stories, but there will always a reason you cannot love me. You are my husband, but I was never really your wife."

Surprised, he loosened his grip on her wrists. "What are you talking about?"

"I am not your mistress or your whore. You do not steal away for an hour with me, but return to where you are supposed to be. I am your wife. I love you. We have a home, we have children. How can you think we are all a mistake?"

"My mistake?" he asked, still having no idea what she meant, but encouraged to hear she still loved him.

"God's mistake. Fate's mistake," she said. "People die, Mulder. People we love die, we grieve and, after a time, our lives go on. That is not betraying the people we have lost; it is living. You cannot be married to a ghost." 

"A ghost? You think I'm still in love with Melly? No, you're wrong. I love you. I never loved Melly the way I love..." He studied her face and realized, "Sarah? You think I'm in love with Sarah? She's been dead for years."

"You think you should have died, too." Dana jerked away and leaned against the bedpost as she struggled for breath. "That you deserved to die, because she did. You think everything and everyone else - Melissa, Samuel, me, our children - we are some error of Fate. You sabotage yourself and push us away because going on with your life would be betraying her."

"That's not true."

"What is it about me that reminded you of Sarah? Do I smile like her, move like her? Make love like her? What is it, Mulder?"

"Have you been in my desk?" he accused her, positive she hadn't. "Have you been reading my letters to Melly?"

"Oh, go to hell," she said tiredly and turned away.

*~*~*~*

Mulder lay on the kitchen floor and fished blindly underneath the stove for a tail or paw. As he strained to reach another half-inch, Emily stood beside him, sobbing miserably for "Cat. Cat. Cat." 

"Almost," he promised breathlessly, expecting his shoulder to come out of joint. "I almost have him. Al... mo-" He felt kitten fluff and grabbed. He got a handful of air, sharp claws, and angry hissing. Mulder cursed and jerked his hand out to examine the scratch.

"Me cat. Cat, Dah-dah! Dah-dah, cat," Emily pleaded. "Cat-cat-cat-cat." She had a new favorite word, and pronounced it like swaying, clattering train, slowly gaining speed.

"I'm trying," he insisted irritably. He sucked his bleeding knuckle. She didn't look convinced, so he squirmed sideways and tried with his left arm, avoiding the bottom of the hot stove. "Emmy, he doesn't want to come out. Can't you sleep without him?"

"Me cat," she wailed, tears streaming down her face dramatically. "Peas. Cat. Cat-cat-cat. Cat!"

Mulder sighed in exasperation and continued fishing for feline. In retrospect, a tiny kitten hadn't been the best Christmas gift for a toddler. For months, the loudmouthed ball of fluff terrified Emily. She cried whenever she saw it. Now, she insisted on carrying it around, usually upside down, which the half-grown kitten resisted.

"Me cat!"

"I'm trying," he snapped, which made her cry harder. Behind the stove, the kitten eyed Mulder and hissed warningly.

"Do you want me to get him out?" Sam's voice asked from above the black boots Mulder lay eye-to-eye with.

"I'll get him," Mulder muttered. He reached forward, grabbed again, and got fangs through the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. "Damn it! Goddamn stupid cat!"

"Tam it!" Emily repeated disapprovingly and resumed her tearful pleading for, "Cat. Cat-cat-cat. Dah-dah, peas. Me cat. "

The boots disappeared into the pantry, and reappeared as Mulder sat up, clutching his newest wound. Sam squatted down, waving a small slice of ham. The kitten rolled to his feet and strolled out, meowing longingly. Sam sent Emily off holding the ham and giggling as the fat gray puffball pranced after her.

Mulder sighed again. He got up, dusted off his backside, and reached for his tepid cup of coffee. He'd re-warmed the coffee Dana made before Easter Mass. Six hours hadn't improved the flavor. It kept him awake and removed paint.

"Dana calls him Ocras," Sam said. The boy sat at the kitchen table and wove his legs through the chair rungs. "That's 'hungry' in Gaelic. Dana said not to call him Damnation."

"Tam cat," Mulder responded tiredly. He poured more sugar into his mug in a futile attempt to mask the taste. Despite the heat from the stove, he felt cold inside, and his belly chilled despite the coffee. 

"I think-" Sam started uncertainly. "I think Dana's asleep."

In his blend-into-the-shadows way, Sam had observed the drama following Sadie's arrival. He appeared in a doorway or in the nursery, watched impassively, and faded away like the morning fog. Mulder seldom noticed Sam arriving or going until he was there or gone.

"Dana is asleep. She needs to rest. Sadie and Cally are asleep, but Emmy won't lie down. I, uh..." A yawn interrupted him, and Mulder rubbed his eyes. Dana wasn't the only one who hadn't slept since Friday. "I, uh..." 

Mulder couldn't remember what he'd been talking about.

"I could watch her," Sam offered.

"You don't have to. Cally's nurse will be back soon, and Rebekah..." He trailed off. His ears popped as he yawned again.

"No, I could. You could sleep."

"That would be nice." Mulder rolled his neck and let his eyelids close halfway in anticipation. "You'll wake me if anything happens?" he checked. "Or if you get tired of watching the girls? Wake me, not Dana. Let Dana sleep."

"I will." Sam hesitated before he asked, "Father?" 

"Hum?"

"What's..." Samuel trailed off and grew smaller. "Everyone's talking about Sadie. Even at church this morning. I heard Dana crying. Yelling. Is she..."

"She'll stay another month - long enough to make sure she's not having another baby. Then she's leaving."

"But Sadie's leaving. I heard you say so."

"It doesn't change- change the circumstances," Mulder hedged.

"Dana's leaving forever? A divorce?"

The concept of divorce was as mythical. Through adultery, drunkenness, beatings, insanity, married people stayed married to escape the social scandal and stigma on the children. Money and family smoothed over many things when a girl wanted to marry, but not being Negro, illegitimate, or the child of divorced parents.

Mulder stroked his aching forehead with his thumb as he realized was three for three with the girls. One Negro, one illegitimate, and one a child of divorce. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Where would Dana go?"

"I don't know yet."

"What about Emily and Cally?" Sam asked softly.

"Sam, I don't know."

"What if she's having a baby?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Mulder muttered through his teeth.

"I thought you and Dana weren't having more bay-"

"Enough," Mulder said more sharply than he intended. "Sammy, enough. Stop. Please. I don't know what will happen. I don't. But it doesn't matter. You don't want Dana here, and Dana doesn't want to be here. You and I need to talk. Later. I'm too tired to think, let alone explain."

Sam nodded uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he apologized. "There are so many things... I’m sorry. I’m sorry I disappointed you. I'm sorry this is happening, and I'm sorry you have to watch it happen."

His son nodded again. He paused uncertainly before he asked, "When Dana leaves - you won't go after her, will you?"

He shook his head slowly, his neck muscles aching. "No, if she wants to go, I won't try to stop her."

Sam nodded one last time, seeming comforted, and excused himself to go after Emily. 

Mulder exhaled, knowing he hadn't handled that well. Once he found the energy to move, he stretched out on the library sofa and closed his eyes. Kitten claws skittered across the foyer, and Emily squealed as she and Sam pursued Damnation up the stairs.

*~*~*~*

Mulder heard the voice calling his name, as gently insistent as water dripping onto sandstone, slowly eroding away sleep. "All right. I'm awake," he mumbled. The cushion he'd shoved behind his head on the sofa made his neck ache. He massaged it with his hand.

"Fox," she repeated slowly, her accent wrapping his name in southern mist.

"I'm up," he answered sleepily, rubbing his eyes. Rebekah had changed his diapers and retained the right to call him 'Fox,' but few others did. Poppy had, but to every other adult in the house, including, at the moment, Dana, he was 'Mr. Mulder.'

"Get up. Come on, silly," she persisted. "It's almost dark. You'll miss everything."

He looked up and saw Melissa's brown eyes watching him, except these eyes had life in them, mischief, sparkle. The facial structure looked similar, but rounder and not so exotic. Her hair was the same straight, black silk curtain, but she was fairer, looking less Cherokee and more French. She wore a simple white dress, and she was slimmer than Melissa, with the small, high breasts and new curves of a teenage girl. One of Samuel’s admirers, he assumed – and a strikingly pretty one. Still, she shouldn’t be roaming the house. Nor calling him ‘Fox.’ 

Mulder squinted as he tried to figure out who this girl could be and why she'd address him so casually.

"Sarah?" he realized, sitting up.

"No, Napoleon. Get up, silly."

"Sarah?" he repeated. She'd died before photographs became popular, and Jack Kavanaugh disapproved of paintings of his girls, claiming they were vanity. The only images Mulder had of Sarah were the ones in his mind. Seeing her at fifteen felt strange. She seemed more child than woman. "Sarah?"

She stepped back. She looked around the library as the sunset glowed orange through the windows. "This is your house?"

"Yes, this is my house," Mulder answered automatically. He assured himself he was dreaming, not crazy. "Sarah..."

It felt like a dream, but not. It was like seeing his mother's soul leaving or Dana's when Cally was born. There, but not. She was a spectator in his world, but no longer part of it. His mind filled in what his senses didn't, though: the warmth from her body, the scent of her skin, and the sound of her footsteps across the rug.

Sarah trailed her fingers casually across the polished piano and over the easel. She stopped to examine the accordion. "What's this?"

"It's Sam's accordion. It makes music, or something akin to it."

"Sam? Samantha?"

"Samuel. Melissa's son. Melissa and I have a son named Samuel. He's almost sixteen." 

"You and Melissa? My sister Melissa? You called her an empty-headed pest and a bore and a crybaby. Are you teasing me?"

"I'm not teasing." He tried to get his bearings. "Melly and I were married. We- Would- would you like to see him?"

Sarah nodded and followed him, tripping lightly up the curving staircase. He expected her to vanish at any second. She didn’t, so he cautioned her to be quiet and pushed open the first door.

"Sam," he whispered. Mulder gestured to the young man asleep on top of the covers, one hand under his cheek and one resting protectively on Emily. The kitten curled at the foot of the bed with its muzzle on Sam's ankle. "That's my Sammy."

"He's beautiful." 

"Yes."

"He looks like Melissa. He's like her in so many ways. You don't want him to be, but he is, and it frightens you."

"Yes, it does," he admitted quietly.

She studied Sam's face thoughtfully. "There is so much beauty inside him. He has a quiet center, an artist's soul. An old soul. You've lost him so many times, and you've searched for so long, but there is no place for him here. You want to protect him, but you can't. You can't protect him from all the evil in the world or from the storm inside himself."

"I can try," he said even more quietly.

"You won't succeed."

"But I can try," he repeated.

"And the baby? Is she yours?"

"That's Emily. She'll be two this summer." He moistened his lips. "Yes, she's mine. And my Cally's asleep in the nursery. She's four months old."

Emily shifted, and Sam patted her back. Samuel rubbed his neck and rolled to his side, curling up to her. At the foot of the bed, the kitten flicked its tail but didn't open its eyes.

Mulder gestured for Sarah to step back as he closed Sam's door. He stood facing her in the dim hallway, knowing he dreamed but unwilling to wake.

"It seems so odd," she murmured. "You being married, having a house, having a family. You're a man, Fox."

"I am," he said, standing close to her. 

He wanted to put his arms around her and feel like the world wasn't coming to an end, but he didn't. He'd envisioned her as a woman and, in his dreams, treated her like a woman. Seeing her as the child she'd been, those dreams seemed perverse. Sarah was right; he was a grown man and this was a girl.

"Stay," he offered. "There's so much to talk about. I could show you Cally. My daughter. I could-"

She shook her head side to side.

"I saw you once," he said quickly, afraid she would fade away at any moment. "In Tennessee. Near your father's plantation. There was a war, and I was wounded. I was dying, and I saw a bright light, and you were there, walking toward me through the tall grass. I felt my soul leaving my body. I saw the battle as if I looked down on it. I started to come to you, but you shook your head and told me to go back. So I did," he finished in a frantic jumble, justifying why his life continued but hers hadn't. "And so I'm here."

"You think it was a mistake? Coming back?"

"I-I don't know. I'm not dying, am I?"

"No, you look healthy," she assured him. "How can living be a mistake?"

"Not living," he corrected her. "Having nothing to live for," Mulder said, and wanted to snatch those words back.

She nodded toward the door at the end of the hall. "She is nothing? Your children are nothing?"

"No. Of course, I love my family," he explained quickly. "Of course I do, but this is - this is not how it was supposed to be. I-I came back for you, but you were gone. There was no right answer."

"Perhaps there is no right answer. Perhaps, if I had lived, we would have become lovers and you would have died in Tennessee, leaving me to grieve. Or we would have married to please our parents but ended up hating each other until the day we died, bitter and miserable. Or we would have been happy. Who can say? There are infinite possibilities in each lifetime, so how can you presume to know what Fate intended? You’re such a coward." 

"I'm not a coward," he defended himself. "You- you're a dream."

"Yes, I am. I'm a fifteen-year-old child and your dream of how you think life should have been. That life wasn't real. It wasn't something you had and lost, Fox; it never happened." Sarah pointed past him, at the door of his bedroom. "But she happened to you. Perhaps you were not supposed to meet in this lifetime, but against all odds, you did. You found her. She is real, and she loves you. Why can't you let go of me and let yourself love her? Why can't you let her into your heart? Are you so afraid of what she'd find?"

"That's not Melissa. Melly's dead, too. That's Dana."

She nodded. 

He shook his head, brushing off her argument. "It's too late. Even if it wasn't, she doesn't love me anymore."

"She's still here," the girl responded. 

"I didn't give her a choice."

"A choice?" Sarah gave him the same eyebrow Dana did. "She isn't my sister. She doesn't need your permission. She could take those girls and vanish into the Irish section of New York or Boston and you'd never find them again, but she hasn't. She's still here, still letting you trample all over her heart with your half-truths and pathetic explanations."

"You seem to know a lot about Dana."

"Only what you know." She smiled and slipped her hand into his, touching him for the first time. Mulder felt the warmth and texture of her palm. "Let the fairytale go, Fox. Let one life go and live another one, while you still have a chance."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Trust your heart. There's truth there. It's that thick, brilliant head of yours getting you in trouble, not your heart."

"You're saying goodbye, aren't you?"

"You are," she answered. "You don't need me anymore."

"I do."

She shook her head slowly. "Listen to your heart."

"All right," he said shakily. She stepped back, turning away. He let go, and her fingers slipped away from his. Mulder stood outside the master bedroom, watching her walk down the hall and disappear around the curve of the stairs. 

*~*~*~*

As midnight approached, Mulder glanced at the level of golden liquid in the bottle. Wondered how it got so low. Whiskey. He found it in the liquor cabinet and had to figure out why it was in the house: a medicinal leftover from a sore throat he had the previous winter. Six months ago, Dana fixed him a hot toddy and put him to bed, fussing over him in a satisfying manner.

Mulder approached the bedroom door a dozen times to stare at it, lose his nerve, and turn away. The battle was over. He'd lost. All that remained was to negotiate the terms of surrender.

He poured another shot, examined it, and poured the liquid back into the bottle. Most of it went in. What didn't spattered across his letter, making the ink run purple.

Mulder heard footsteps on the stairs - too quick for the wet nurse and too light for Sam. He got up to inspect and found Dana in the foyer. She wore her long, white nightgown, and her hair was down, falling in red waves to her waist. She looked ghostly, as if already halfway gone.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Emily is awake. She wants a drink, but the pitcher was empty."

"I'll get it," he volunteered, and was halfway to the kitchen before she could object.

With the clock counting down, he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Emily. After dinner, they played as long as she could keep her eyes open - all her favorite games: no-no Emmy, and chase the kitten, and spin things in the dumbwaiter, and bang on pots. Her energy gave out before his urgency, and he'd carried her to bed and sat watching her for a long time.

"She's asleep," he told Dana a moment later, returning downstairs. "I guess she didn't want it after all."

"I guess not," she responded awkwardly. "I didn't realize you were still awake. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You aren't interrupting."

"You were writing to Melissa."

"No. No, I wasn't. I was writing, but not to Melly. I'm-I'm glad to see you. I wanted to check on you, but I wasn't sure... Do you feel all right?" he asked, equally ill at ease. "Please sit down."

"I feel fine."

"Sit anyway. Make me feel better. Please?" He offered a chair opposite his desk. She sat, tucking her nightgown around her.

"I am fine," she assured him. "My back hurt earlier, but I feel fine now. I am not ill. This is perfectly natural."

"You're sure you weren't- aren't-" He cleared his throat. "I can have the doctor come."

"No. I am sure." 

He noticed his lower lip smarted, and realized he was biting it. 

"I feel like I should apologize," she said uncertainly. 

"Don't," he said. "I'd rather you leave me now than be dead eight months from now. I wanted you to stay; I never wanted another baby." Mulder sighed tiredly. He pushed the things on his desk aside and propped up his feet. "And to that end, I suppose we should talk."

Dana plucked at some thread from her nightgown. "Yes, I suppose we should."

"I-" they both said and stopped. 

Dana plucked another thread, and Mulder found a spot on his desk to stare at. He picked up his pen and tapped it nervously until it annoyed even him. 

"Our agreement was anywhere within a day's train ride of Washington," he said formally, as though closing a business deal. "Money's not an issue. I won't have you or Emmy want for anything."

"I want the baby."

"I'm aware of that. I want both girls. You're the one who wants to leave, Dana. As long as I can see her and you don't take her very far, you can take Emmy. You can see Cally whenever you want. That's my best offer. My only offer."

"You cannot do that."

"Yes, I can. You know I can."

Her jaw clenched defiantly.

"Don't," he warned. "Don't try to take her and run. I'll find you. I found Sam. There's nowhere on Earth you can take Cally I won't find her, and once I do, my next offer won't be so generous. Again, Dana, you're the one who wants to leave. What we need to decide," he continued coolly, "is where you want to live. And, of course, when you want to go."

"Yes," she said softly.

"Had you given it any thought?"

"No. Everything has happened so quickly. You seem to be holding up well, though."

"I am aching," he said. He shuffled some papers in no need of shuffling.

"So am I."

He stopped shuffling and set the papers aside. Mulder took a deep breath and continued. "I have an address for your mother in New York, if you're interested. That's a long trip, though, and I'd prefer you stay closer to Washington. It’s easier on everyone. I don't have to go far to see Emmy and you don't have to travel to see Cally. Baltimore? Alexandria? I thought of my parents' house in Georgetown."

"I do not know," she whispered.

"Another thing," he continued rapid-fire, before the whiskey drained out of his brain and he had to think again. "For the sake of the children, I'd rather not divorce. There's no reason for it. I put money in trust for Emmy, but otherwise there's no property or income on your side to separate from mine. I'd rather we live apart and leave things as they are. I'm not interested in remarrying, and I'm sure you've had your fill of husbands."

That was her cue to smirk, but she seemed far away.

"Dana, you're cold. You're shivering," he realized.

She had her arms wrapped around her and her shoulders hunched forward, looking too small for the large armchair. She looked surreally pale, all blue eyes and auburn mane against her white nightgown and the dark leather upholstery.

"Are you all right?" Mulder walked around the desk to her. He squatted in front of her chair. "Dana? Are you all right?"

"Fine," she said unconvincingly, and added, "I am cold."

Without thinking, he put his hand on her forehead, touching her for the first time since they argued on Easter Sunday. "Do you have a fever? You don't feel warm. In fact-" He put his hands over hers. "Your hands are like ice.

"I am all right. Just cold. Tired."

He let go of her hands and turned away, putting two more logs on the dying fire. "And hungry. You didn't eat dinner, did you?" 

She didn't answer, which probably meant no. He ate in the kitchen with Emily, making mashed potato bowls for their gravy. He remembered Sam bringing his plate from the dining room to the kitchen, but he couldn't recall seeing Dana go near the dinner table. She'd told Mulder her news as he came home from work and spent the evening in the nursery with Cally.

The last few nights had been cool and wet as April drizzled away at May. The logs were damp. The fireplace smoked and sizzled and popped, but refused to give off heat. He heard Dana's teeth chattering. A baby blanket lay on the sofa, and he wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking it tight. "Better?" he asked, and she nodded, shivering less violently. He felt her face again, still worried. "Dana, are you sure you aren't miscarrying?"

"I am sure." She looked at him, her eyes darting over his face. She sank back in her chair, away from him. She had to smell the whiskey on his breath.

"All right." He moved back and sat on the rug in front of her. He poked the fire a few times, stirring the coals. He poked it again for good measure, and watched it smolder. "I want you to be all right. Whenever you're leaving, wherever you're going. You're still getting over Cally's birth. No matter how much you despise me, I don't want you making yourself sick. I..." He slouched forward and wrapped his arms around his legs. Mulder put his aching forehead on his knees and closed his eyes.

Like a good soldier, he'd plotted his strategy: meet at dawn, negotiate the terms of surrender as quickly and with as much dignity as possible. He couldn't stop her from leaving. He'd worn out his thesaurus searching for ways to make her understand how sorry he was. If he had a few more weeks - or months - or years - maybe he could, but he didn't. Dana's euphemistic 'curse' had arrived a full three weeks before Mulder's 'stay another month' deadline. He couldn't stop Dana from leaving, but he could at least maintain some dignity about it.

"I love you," he said hoarsely. "I do. Only you. You have given me so much and all I've given you is heartache. I am sorry: for hurting you, for lying to you, for pushing you away. I know you don't believe me. I don't expect you to, but I thought somewhere in the world would be one bit of truth I could put in your hands and say 'believe this.' But there doesn't seem to be. I keep trying to follow my heart, but all my heart does is break. Which isn't helpful. So here we are."

He looked up, wiping his nose. She huddled in the big chair with the baby blanket around her shoulders and her bare feet dangling a few inches above the rug.

"You're still cold," he said tiredly, and got to his feet. "And you're upset. I'm sorry about Cally. I'm not trying to keep you away from her. We can talk about it another time. Come on; I'll walk you to bed. I won't touch you - just walk with you and make sure you don't fall on the stairs."

"I am not going to faint."

"Humor me."

She sighed and got up, walking toward the staircase with him at her heels, like a sheepdog with one sheep. "Is this your new plan?"

"What?" His only remaining plan was 'don't cry in front of Dana.'

"Staying in my shadow. All the time. I have to come here to see the baby. You will come to my house to see Emily. Whenever you like, which means all the time. You will start appearing for coffee, then lunch because it was 'on your way.' Bringing me your shirts to get the ink stains out and sew the buttons back on. Soon, you will be under my feet every moment of the day. I might as well stay here and save you the trolley fare."

She started up the stairs. He stopped her on the bottom step, putting his hand on her wrist. "Are you saying you want to stay?"

She turned slowly. They were eye-to-eye, but she focused on his cheekbone. "I-I do not know. I was angry. I was not thinking. Not matter what I want- Having two houses, separating the girls... It does not seem reasonable." 

"It does not?" 

"No, it does not. Leaving seems impractical."

"It seems impractical?" he echoed.

"Yes. It does."

He tilted his head to the left and leaned close like he would kiss her. As she inhaled uncertainly, seeming unsure if she would try to stop him, he whispered, "Bullshit."

Dana pulled back in surprise.

"If you've changed your mind and want to stay, say so, but don't start mouthing about practicality and reason. Neither of us loves reasonably."

"I am trying to be adult-"

"Bullshit," he repeated softly. "Being adults doesn't mean living in the same house like polite strangers. Living a lie. Wrong, Dana. I’ve done that. That's called being cowards."

She bristled. Dana tossed her hair back from her shoulders and opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. "I love you. Only you. I'm sorry I lied to you. I was an arrogant ass and I will make every effort to see it doesn't happen again. I've never been unfaithful to you. If I've been with Poppy, it was years ago and it wasn't something I wanted to happen. I'm not convinced I'm Sadie's father, but she's my responsibility. And I am fallible. I make mistakes, but I'm trying my damnedest to learn from them. That's it, Dana. You can live with it or you can't, but don't make excuses about being reasonable."

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. "But-"

"Bullshit. Jesus, Dana - I'm not asking you to lay your heart bare for me. Play your cards as close to your chest as you like, but at least be honest. If you don't want to be my wife, leave. I won't stop you, I won't keep you from Cally, and I won't try to convince you to come back. But if you want to stay, stay, and I'll do everything I can to put things right."

A pained wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows, and she looked over his right shoulder, blinking quickly.

"You're right; you aren't going to faint. God forbid you even flinch. Go to bed, Dana," he said tiredly. "Just go."

She turned away, gathering up her long nightgown. She climbed to the fifth step before she stopped. Dana turned back, paused, and said with difficulty, "I want to stay."

"All right," he responded from the bottom of the steps, glad he had one hand on the banister to steady himself.

"I will see you at breakfast," she added, in case he might assume her staying meant he was welcome in her bed. "Tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning. I'll make coffee. We'll start over."

*~*~*~* 

Mulder found himself staring at the kitchen ceiling, willing her to hurry. Rebekah would arrive in another half hour, and he wanted privacy. He heard Dana stirring, so he made coffee. She dawdled so long he drank it and had to make another pot. Mulder drummed his fingers on the kitchen table and his feet against the rungs of his chair. It was sweet in a too-sugary way: after two babies, two years of marriage, and numerous acts not mentioned in his old marriage manuals, Dana still gave him the jitters. He heard her ambling down the stairs, taking her sweet time and oblivious to his plight.

"Good morning," Mulder said. He stood quickly, sending his chair squeaking back a few inches on the kitchen floor. 

"Good morning," she mumbled blearily.

"Fox William Mulder," he introduced himself, extending his hand. "When I was fifteen, my sweetheart miscarried and died. I was not-" 

He faltered; the sentence was easier in his head. He took a breath and tried again, wanting to tell her the truth. 

"I was not the father of her child," he managed. "I never stopped loving her, but I married her sister Melissa. Who was also expecting a baby. Melly was a great beauty: sweet, talented, devoted to me. And a little touched. A few years ago, while I was asleep, she committed suicide, taking our unborn daughter with her. Our Samuel found her. He's sixteen. If he feels like emerging from his bedroom, he's a musical prodigy and artistic genius. I thought I lost him in the war, found him, brought him back, and don't know what to do with the boy I've found except try desperately not to lose him again."

Dana continued looking at his proffered hand as she asked, "Who was the father of Sarah's child? How much coffee have you had, Mulder?"

"My parents are dead," he continued. "My father during the siege of Richmond, my mother last fall. No brothers or sisters. My father was a senator, and he cast a long shadow. I try not to live in it. I have two little girls: one mine by blood, one by providence. And my first wife's half-sister says I'm her daughter's father. That's a long story, but drugs and bad judgment were involved."

Dana yawned and scratched the back of her head.

"I went to Harvard, and served in the cavalry during the war. I own a newspaper, one of the few in DC that didn't burn down. The KKK hates me, as does half of Congress. I'm wealthy. Idealistic. Stubborn. Proud. Odd. I keep secrets. I have ghosts. I snore. I drink more than I say I do. I talk too much when I shouldn't and not enough when I should. And," he recalled, pointing airily, "I shot my bastard uncle last month. He tried to shoot me and I put a bullet between his eyes."

"Good for you, Mr. Mulder," she mumbled, and sat down.

He took a seat across from her at the table, waiting expectantly.

"What?" she asked sleepily.

He gestured it was her turn.

"Dana Katherine Scully Waterston Mulder," she said after sip of coffee. "It is nice to meet you, Mr. Mulder."

"Nice to meet you, Dana Katherine Scully Waterston Mulder. I bet there's a story behind that name."

She pointed to her cup. "Coffee first."

He nodded he could wait.

*~*~*~*

A drop of coffee dried on the outer rim of his mug, and he scratched it away with his fingernail. "I'd wondered," he said. "From what you'd said, your family was tied to the sea, not the land. It wouldn't matter if the village was destroyed."

Dana stared into her cup. She pretended to take a sip, though she didn't. "I did not think," she said softly. Steam rose from her coffee, swirling toward her face and vanishing into the cool morning air. "When Oisin died, I picked up his gun, got the soldier alone in the woods, and shot him. I did not care what happened to me, but I never thought of the repercussions to my family. Is that the word? Re-per-cussions?"

"Repercussions." He nodded, and asked, "How did you get the soldier alone in the woods?"

She looked up at him with cool, steady blue eyes.

"Oh," he mumbled, and rubbed another caramel colored spot from his cup. "But you pulled the trigger, not your family."

"The English landlords do not see it that way. If you think I am troublesome, you should have met my brothers." She smiled mistily at some childhood memory before she asked, "Were their bodies recovered? Could there have been a mistake? Could..."

"You told me not to check," he said, surprised at the question.

"But I knew you would."

"They were listed as being on duty," Mulder said. "On the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay, August 4, 1864. Admiral Farragut had been warned the waters were mined, but it was an ironclad ship: supposedly unsinkable. Farragut supposedly ordered 'damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!' As it led the squadron into the bay, the Tecumseh struck a mine - a torpedo. There was an explosion, and the ship rolled and sank. There were no survivors, and no identifiable bodies. That happens in war."

She nodded.

"I wish I could do better for you, Dana. I know it seems senseless. They died because Farragut was arrogant and he wanted a fast victory. Not because you killed a man. Not because your family fled to America. Not because your father and brothers joined the navy. They were grown men and experienced sailors; it was their choice to fight in the war or not. They understood the risks."

"I do not think my mother sees it that way," Dana told her coffee cup, needlessly stirring the murky liquid with her spoon.

*~*~*~*

Owning a newspaper wasn't a profitable or prestigious business. For every headline, there was a multitude of headaches: jammed presses, frantic editors, cutthroat reporters, deadlines, and on and on. The hours were long and the decisions difficult, deciding what was news and what was scandal. More than once in the early years, he'd dipped into his own pocket to meet the payroll. At four o'clock, sometimes all Mulder had to show for his efforts were ink stains, a pounding headache, a few more enemies, and a couple pages of newsprint. Some days, he considered letting Byers take over once and for all, and finding a less troublesome occupation. Like bullfighting. Fire eating. Alligator wrestling.

"Come," he said without looking up, and his office door opened. "Put it on my desk. Crises on the left, complaints on the right. If you hate Melvin Frohike, there's a line upstairs; go stand in it."

A stack of cursive covered pages appeared on the corner of his desk: the translations of The Lancet and Scientific American one of his typesetters did for Dana each month. Mulder glanced at them, but didn't give them another thought until he left work.

He and Samuel caught the streetcar on the corner and squeezed in with the evening masses. Mulder found a place to stand at the back, and ignored the parasol jabbing him in the leg as he read a letter he'd forgotten he asked his typesetter to translate.

*~*~*~*

October 13, 1864

Dear Mother, 

I have written to you many times, but my letters go unanswered. Once again, I hope this letter finds you safe. My husband tells me Father and Bill and Charles are dead, but I do not know if this is true. I pray it is not, but my heart tells me it is. Mother, I am so sorry. I would give my life if it would bring them back to you.

I wish I could invite you to live with me, but that is not possible. I understand I cannot leave, I cannot shame my family, so I try to stay out of the way, especially when he is drinking. I try to be a good wife, but I know he is disappointed with me. Perhaps it is because we have no children, or because he does not love me. I look like the memory of someone he loved, but that is not enough.

I remember a time I wished I had died with Oisin. Eventually, the ache in my heart faded and left behind emptiness, as though I could see the sun at a distance but its rays never reached my face. So I married this American doctor I barely knew, and who I knew did not love me. I thought it would not matter because I thought there was nothing left alive inside me to feel. But there is, mother. My heart was broken, but it continues to beat. 

Sometimes I want to leave with the first man who comes along. To say to the Devil with this unending civil war, to the Devil with these miserable swamps and mosquitoes, and to the Devil with Dr. Waterston. I want to climb into a stranger's buggy or scramble up on his horse and say, "I cannot go home, but take me anywhere but here." Sometimes-

*~*~*~*

"Are those Dana's?" Sam asked, and Mulder jumped, jostling the passengers around him. The woman behind him responded by poking him with her parasol again.

"These are," Mulder answered. He offered the two paper bundles he'd wedged under his arm. "Here. You can give them to her."

"What about that one?" he asked, nodding to the letter his father held. 

"No," Mulder responded, folding and tucking it in his inside coat pocket. "This one's nothing. Come on. Our stop's next."

*~*~*~*

He would not be a jealous ass. He would not be a jealous ass.

Mulder stopped pretending to read. He laid the book on his chest and watched Dana and Byers chat in the parlor. In Gaelic. Without him. Engrossed in a conversation he could barely hear, but was certain was about him. Mulder put one foot on the floor, deciding he needed something from the parlor and would remember what it was by the time he arrived.

Byers started a sentence but paused, gesturing as if trying to remember the word in Gaelic. 

"Pluicean," Dana supplied for him. "Pustule."

Byers nodded and continued. He kept glancing past Dana, through the French doors, and into the library at Mulder. He'd stopped to drop off an article for Mulder to read, and Dana invited him to stay for dinner. For a glass of wine after dinner. And for a second glass of wine. And, apparently, after the servants left, for the night, a riveting discussion of Small Pox.

Mulder exhaled, put his foot back on the sofa, and picked up his book again. 

He would not be a jealous ass.

He looked up again. Byers stood, and Dana was wishing him a safe trip home. Byers leaned into the library, telling Mulder goodnight and he'd see him in the morning. Mulder raised his hand, pretending to be engrossed in his book.

"You are sulking," Dana said, returning to the library after showing Byers to the door. She pushed down the book he hid behind. "You have been since dinner. If I did not know better, I would say you were jealous."

"Of course I'm not."

"You are. You are jealous of Mr. Byers."

He made his hurt-little-boy face, pushing out his lower lip. "I am. You never discuss pus with me."

"Pus," she whispered seductively, leaning over him. She'd had a smidgeon too much to drink, and her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Pox. Bubon. Canker. Surgical fever. Putrefaction. Gangrene."

He looped his finger through her necklace and pulled her lower. "Do you kiss your husband with that filthy mouth?"

"Infection. Prophylaxis. Pandemic. Rigor mortis." She hesitated, her lips over his. "Post-mortem liquescence."

"Oh my." He dropped the book and raised his mouth to hers. One soft wine-flavored kiss followed another. He sat up and guided her down and back on the sofa so he was on top of her. "Thank God. I’d begun to think you added extra days to torment me."

"I would never-"

He kissed her again, pressing her lips apart. He unbuttoned the front of her bodice and the delicate corset cover. Her corset pushed her breasts high, rounding them into twin half-moons. They rose and fell as her breathing quickened, threatening to escape the confines of the whalebones.

"I've missed you," he murmured, trailing his mouth across her cleavage and up the underside of her throat. "You can't imagine how much I want you."

"We should go upstairs," she whispered as he gathered up her skirt and pushed the ruffled petticoats out of the way. His hand slid up her leg, past stockings, garters, and lacy pantalets to the soft, warm nest of hair between her thighs. Split-crotch drawers: a God-given boon to mankind.

"In a minute," he answered hoarsely, urging her legs apart.

Reality slipped away, leaving earlobes, smooth eyelids, and tart, kiss-swollen lips. The soft whimpering sound she made as he touched her. The silkiness of her hair under his fingers, the softness of her thumbs outlining his face.

He missed the world being the two of them. 

It had been, once. Before they'd married, on Waterston's plantation. Mulder had chopped firewood in the summer sun as she sat in the shade with her new baby. The heat was sweltering. Sweat soaked his shirt and dripped into his eyes. Sawdust coated his forearms and neck, and the sun singed his scalp. He stopped to wipe his face, glanced back, and found she was watching him. He'd said something benign and gone back to chopping, puzzled why a woman would look at a dirty, sweaty man like he was the biggest piece of chocolate cake on a dessert tray.

And when they'd first married, lying in bed with Emily between them, watching in fascination as the baby's mouth moved against Dana's breast. Being newlyweds. Exploring the mysteries and pleasures of the flesh like an addict with a new drug. Waking Dana in the stillness before dawn and making love slowly, without speaking. Being at work and discovering the scent of her lingering on his shirt. Feeling her arms around him late at night. 

When Cally was coming, after morning sickness passed but before Sam returned, there’d been the long Sunday afternoons of reading in front of the fire, eating whatever and whenever they pleased, and making love whenever and wherever they pleased. Spending hours with his hand on her flat belly, fascinated by the miracle inside it. Watching Emily grow. Watching Dana glow, knowing she wanted another baby as much as he did. Waltzing without music in an empty ballroom. Making a life together.

The sofa creaked as he shifted. Her dark silk skirt and white cotton petticoats bunched up around her waist and spilled down to the floor. Her face and breasts flushed, and her hair came undone. He paused to unfasten the buttons of his trousers. She looked up at him appreciatively. 

"Tell me you want me," he whispered.

He didn't understand her response, but he heard her call him "mo run."

Cupid folded his arms, leaned back, and grinned smugly.

Mulder's brain shut down, sending every third word to his lips. He slid two fingers inside her. “Wet," he murmured. “Tight. Oh, God."

He thrust his fingers back and forth. Her back arched. He smelled her, and beneath his drawers, his prick ached to be inside her. Dana’s hand traveled up his thigh and to his groin. 

“I love you,” Mulder said.

She answered with a moan, a gasp, and “Samuel.”

"Samuel?"

Cupid bolted upright and glanced around in confusion.

"Samuel," she repeated urgently, pulling away from him. "Mulder!"

He yanked his hand from beneath her skirt and looked over his shoulder in time to see Sam enter the library, gasp, and whirl around.

"Shit." Mulder scrambled to his feet. He wiped his fingers on his pants leg. "Goddamn it. I thought he was- Shit!"

Dana jerked her skirt down and sat up. She began hurriedly buttoning the front of her dress. Sam had walked in on them asleep after they’d made love, but never during the making.

Mulder, still buttoning, caught up with the boy at the top of the stairs. 

"I'm sorry," Samuel told the floor. "I wanted my cello. I didn't mean to, to, to interrupt. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault." Mulder’s hands trembled as shoved his shirttail into his waistband. "I forgot you were home."

"I don't need my cello tonight," Sam mumbled.

"Sammy, I don't think your cello's the problem. I should have told- We were- Oh God. Let's go in your bedroom and sit down."

Sam helped him check the floor for that trapdoor. Not finding it, Mulder opened the door, and Sam hesitantly stepped inside. 

A baseball bat leaned against the dresser, unused since before the war. A tin box held a collection of interesting rocks Sam and his grandfather had amassed. A hunting rifle was on top of the bookcase; Sam cleaned it often, but declined all invitations to hunt. There were polished riding boots, also seldom used. A ball, a few wooden and tin toys, a slate, and a row of textbooks, their spines neatly aligned. All artifacts of a forgotten childhood.

Sam sat on the bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, and Mulder sat beside him, copying his posture. He smelled Dana on his hands. He rubbed his palms on his wrinkled trousers and shifted his feet uncomfortably, searching for an opening sentence. His son kept his head down, looking like he'd rather be stuck with hot pins. 

There was no need to have 'the talk.' Aside from wherever he'd been sneaking off to at night, Sam spent months in Sherman's army, which left no room for innocence of any sort. In addition to venereal disease, soldiers passed around pornographic photographs, stories, sketches, and novels. Prostitutes visited the camps, collected clients, and adjourned to what privacy the tents provided. Even as a married man and an avid fan of pornography, Mulder had been appalled. To be a boy in a place like that - it wasn't the way he'd wanted his son to learn about the fairer sex, but it was a thorough education.

On the dresser, between a sketch pad and sheet music for an upcoming symphony, were two photographs. One of Bill and Teena Mulder, and one of Melissa. Mulder picked up the second frame, tilting it toward the lamp. "She used to make shirts for me, while I was at Harvard," he said thoughtfully. "Right after we married. She was expecting you, so she couldn't go out, and that's what she did. Sewed shirts and mailed them to me. They were awful."

Sam watched his father out of the corner of his eye.

"Really awful. She was fifteen; she couldn't sew worth beans. I had a tailor make copies so she wouldn't know, but I'd no sooner get one copy made than she'd send another one. Grandfather wrote, demanding to know why I had an exorbitant tailor's bill when my wife sewed all the time." He chuckled at the memory. "I still have a few of those shirts in a trunk somewhere. Luckily, her skills as a seamstress improved over the years."

"You never told her?"

"No, I never did," Mulder answered. "She was fragile, she wanted to make me happy, and it would have hurt her. There were so many things like that." He paused. "But dallying with Poppy wasn't one of them, Sam, and that's what we need to talk about. Poppy's sick. Confused. She's said untrue things. I think she's said them to you. In fact, I know she has. Dana told me-"

In the blink of an eye, Sam switched from examining the rug to scrutinizing his father. Something flickered behind his dark gaze for an instant.

"What, Sam?"

"What did Dana tell you?"

"She said you asked if I was Sadie's father. Dana told you I wasn't. That's probably the truth. I hope it is. I think Poppy's making it up. If I am the father- I don't love Poppy. I never have. It doesn't take love to create a child. You’re old enough to understand it should, but it doesn't. I made a mistake, and I have to live with the consequences. Everyone does."

Mulder watched for a reaction before he continued, but Sam had stopped listening eight sentences ago. 

"When is Dana leaving?"

"She's not, Sam. We need to talk about that, too."

"Oh."

"Dana cares about you. She takes care of you. Hell, Sam, she lies for you. She lies to me, like I was never fifteen and don't know what you're doing. When Dana was planning to leave, one of the things we fought about was her seeing you. I said you wanted me to divorce her... She had no idea you felt that way, Sam. I could have hit her and it wouldn't have hurt any worse."

The clock ticked loudly. Mulder scuffed his boot against the floor and continued, although he might as well have talked to the wall.

"I heard you tell Dana you think I'm disappointed in you as a son. I'm not, Sam. I can't begin to comprehend the gifts you have. Your mother did, but I don't. I try, but I don't. You've been through so much..."

No response.

"I know you miss your mother. Grandmother and Grandfather. I know you're hurting. Alone. Afraid. I know you're doing some things you shouldn't be doing. I understand what it's like to feel hollow, and need someone or something to fill that hollowness. I lost the same people you did and I was in the same war. I want to help, and I'll do almost anything, but please don't ask me to leave Dana. I'm not going to."

"What if she left you?" Sam asked after a long silence. "Would you go after her?"

"As long as there was breath left in my body," he promised.

"Please don't, Father," his son requested, his voice eerily soft and plaintive. "You are all I have. Let her go."

An ominous chill passed through Mulder, but he said, "I can't, Sam. Not even for you. Regardless of what happens."

Sam slouched miserably, and Mulder scuffed the toe of his boot against the rug again, drawing an imaginary line in the sand.

*~*~*~*

Sam had been a child prodigy in the truest sense, particularly in music. He played piano first, then violin, and cello, guitar, and any other stringed instrument crossing his path. Effortlessly. With perfect pitch, which had mystified his teachers. He'd sung in the choir and played at church, but Mulder had discouraged solo public exhibitions, refusing to have his son become a sideshow.

After the war, Sam began playing for the symphony, at first filling in for a sick cellist at the last minute. Mulder had been concerned about the noise and the crowd, but Sam barely noticed. He'd been invited back as a regular member, the youngest in the history of the Washington Symphony. If he had strings underneath his fingers, he was at home, and until the performance ended, the world made sense.

Just as Samuel started playing piano because Melissa played, he’d started drawing because she painted. And because the sketch artists and cartoonists at the newspaper intrigued him. He'd had lessons but in general, Sam drew what he saw, and what he saw were his subject's souls.

Alone in the bedroom, Mulder leafed through the pages of Sam's sketchbook, stopping at a study of hands. He held it up to the lamp, recognizing Emily's chubby fist, and Cally's palm, with a pencil drawing of her tiny, wrinkled foot beside it. An old man's gnarled paw: leathery skin, ragged fingernails, and painful joints. His and Dana's hands, their fingers loosely intertwined and resting against the fabric of the sofa in the library.

On the next page was a charcoal sketch of a sleeping young man, his nude upper torso captured in a quick series of black strokes. There was Mulder at his desk at work, chewing a pencil, his forehead furrowed in concentration. The pretty teenage maid with her arms around a basket of laundry and a shy, inviting smile on her face. Dana with Emily in the rocking chair beside the nursery window. A street vendor pushing a cart. A group of three men bathing in the river, their broad backs to the viewer. On the last pages were unfinished sketches of Melissa: all pregnant, and all unfinished because, as Sam said, he couldn't remember what had been her and what was how he wanted to remember her.

A tear dripped onto the page, and Mulder blotted it away so it wouldn't smear the drawing.

Dana stopped in the doorway, probably noticing the glow from the lamp. "Are you all right, Samuel?" she asked softly. She wrapped her robe around her tighter and took a tentative step into the bedroom. "Samuel? Are you awake?"

Mulder continued staring at the sketchbook, refusing to look at her.

"Mulder?" she said in surprise, realizing it was he, not Sam, sitting on the narrow bed. "Where is Samuel?"

"Gone," he said in a strangled voice.

Dana pushed her hair back from her face. "Gone? Where?"

"Away."

"Are you sure he did not sneak out again?"

Mulder looked up, focusing on the darkness. There was no moon or stars outside the window, only vast night. "Please... Please go back to bed, Dana," he requested hoarsely.

"What happened? Did he run away? Where did he go?"

"How the hell should I know?" Anger surging through his veins in search of a target. He threw the sketchbook down and stood, towering over her. "You didn't want me looking for him in the first place! You never wanted me to find him."

Dana stood gaping at him.

He braced his hands on the doorframe, as though guarding his son's bedroom from invaders. He inhaled a deep breath. "You should get away from me," he suggested through his teeth, and wisely, Dana stepped back.

*~*~*~* 

"May I come up?" Dana asked as her head appeared through the opening of the loft. She hooked her umbrella over the edge of a stall. She climbed to the top of the ladder and made her way between the bales of hay. She smoothed her skirt under her hips as she sat beside him, looking shaken.

Below, a pitchfork scratched against the floor as a stable boy mucked out the stalls, and rain drummed steadily on the roof above. Mulder heard the elderly groom talking soothingly to one of the mares, who whinnied and snorted impatiently, wanting breakfast. The stable smelled of sweet, damp hay and grain, and the mellow scent of oiled leather from the tack room.

"That was awful, I know: what I said," Mulder mumbled. "I know it's not true. I'm sorry. Obviously, I was upset. I am upset."

"Where has Samuel gone? To his friend's flat?"

"How should I know?"

"Are you going after him?"

"I don't know." He closed his hot, scratchy eyes, surprised his eyelids covered them. The black rain clouds overshadowed the sun, but it still seemed too bright.

"Go after him, Mulder."

"Even if I knew where he is- Go after him and say what, Dana? 'You will never have to watch another woman die?'" Mulder leaned his head back against the cool wall of the stable. "Maybe that's all insanity is: being able to see into other worlds, other fates. To see how you will lose the people you love, yet not be able to prevent their deaths. I would be insane, too. Melly... I fought as hard as I could, but I lost her to that other world, and I couldn't get her back. Not really, not fully. Sam's her son. He's so like her. So kind, so talented, so gentle. Maybe, like her, he's one of those souls who can lift the veil and catch glimpses of the future, and what he sees for us, if we're together, is your death."

"Mulder, that is nonsense. He is a confused, lonely boy who has lost more than he can bear." Dana chose her words carefully. "He is not what you envisioned your son would be, and he knows. That is what frightens him. You do not need to look to the spirit world for explanations. Go after him, tell him you love him, and tell him to come home." 

Mulder shook his head. "He knows something, Dana. Something he's afraid of. As hard as it is, I think we should listen to him."

"He was wrong before. His dreams. I did not die."

"But you did, Dana. I saw you. Or it wasn't you having Cally he dreamt of, but the next baby, or the next. I can say we won't have any more children, but we both know it's an imperfect science. Sooner or later, I'm going to forget, you're going to conceive, and then... Then he'll be right."

Dana started to argue but didn't have the energy. "I am sorry, but I need you to come inside, Mulder." She still measured each syllable as though it was heavy. "A man wants to see you."

"You deal with him, Dana. Whatever he wants. Say I'm unavailable."

"He told the maid he wanted to speak with you. About me."

He looked at her questioningly. "About you? What's his name?"

"Dr. Daniel Waterston."

*~*~*~*

Waterson was the kind of man Mulder idolized as a young boy and despised by thirteen: self-assured charm and smooth manners wrapped around old money and a mercurial conscience. Handsome, worldly, and more dangerous than he seemed at first glance. 

"Fox Mulder," he said formally, extending his hand. 

This wasn't real, he assured himself. It was not happening. He'd wake up, and it would be a horrible nightmare. Dana would be asleep beside him and Sam would be down the hall, playing his guitar.

Waterston rose from the sofa, smoothed his suit coat and silver hair, and responded in a liquid, New Orleans gentleman's drawl, "Dr. Daniel Waterston." He dropped Mulder's hand and turned as Dana entered. "Hello, Puss," Waterston said softly, going to her and drawing his fingertip under her chin. "It's been a long time."

"It- it has," she answered uncertainly, looking to Mulder. 

He stroked his finger gently down the side of her face, his blue eyes glittering coldly. "I've missed you so much."

Dana stood surreally still, not responding, but not pulling away. Mulder cleared his throat, and Waterston dropped his hand. 

"I'm sorry." Waterston grinned in a way some women probably found irresistible. "I don't mean to be improper. Dana is a very precious thing to lose. I'm thankful to have found her again."

Mulder gestured for everyone to sit down. Dana started to sit beside Mulder, but stopped and chose a solitary chair near the hearth. She inhaled and said cautiously, "I was told you died. There was a letter from your commanding off-"

Waterston cut her off. "He thought I had. I was wounded and taken prisoner. I woke in a POW camp not knowing who I was or where I belonged. I couldn't remember my own name, but I remembered you, Puss. I could see you in my dreams, like an angel. For years, I wasn't sure if you were real or something I'd imagined. But last month, my memory came back. I started searching for you and thank God I've found you."

"Did you remember Dori as well?" she asked evenly. "She came to our house. With her sons. She- she said she belonged to you. I-"

"You believed her? Puss, you can be so gullible. I hope you didn't give her any money," Waterston answered, nimbly sidestepping her question.

"May I ask," Mulder said, his empty stomach churning nauseously. "How you found Dana after so many years?"

Waterston stretched out his legs casually, making himself comfortable. "The courthouse has your name on record as paying the taxes on one of my plantations for the last two years, Mr. Mulder. For which I'll reimburse you, of course, and for any other expenses my wife has incurred while in your employment."

Mulder exchanged quick glances with Dana. Waterston thought she was the housekeeper. She had on a simple, dark silk dress - more expensive, but similar to what Rebekah wore. "That's very generous." Mulder leaned forward, clasping his hands. "But - and forgive me for being so forward - but that's a great deal of money for a man whose cause lost the war, and who claims he was dead until last month."

Waterston folded his arms. "You're right, Mr. Mulder. That is a forward. Puss, get your things. We're going home."

"This is my home. Mr. Mulder is my husband. I- I did not know-"

"I'm your husband," Waterston responded, his smooth exterior hardening. "We're going home. Don't make me tell you again, Puss."

On edge about Sam, Mulder’s pulse quickened, and the room grew brighter. "Call her 'Puss' again and I'll knock your teeth in, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch," he hissed. "Stop interrupting her, and don't you dare threaten her. Do you think you can show up after two and a half years, tell her some asinine story about losing your memory-"

"She's my wife."

"She's not your wife. Your wife and two children are in New Orleans. I've met them. Nina Waterston assured me you'd returned from war safely and were in Charleston on business. I checked. Your business in Charleston is a French woman named Maria. There's Dori, and how many others?" Mulder shook his head angrily. "At first, I assumed you collected pretty, exotic women, but I realized none of them speak English well. That's why you picked them. Most can't read. They're isolated from society, so they trust you as their link to the world. You could have a wife in Savannah and another in Charleston, and one would never know about the other. If I wanted to be a bigamist, Doctor, that's exactly how I'd do it."

Waterston started to object, but Mulder was just getting started. He still needed a target, and Waterston made a good one.

"I think you bit off more than you could chew with Dana. You couldn't keep her under your thumb. You tried. You lied to her. You got drunk and hit her. You made her feel like a whore. A bad wife. A bad daughter. You intercepted her mother's letters to her, and Dana's to her family. She was still too much trouble, so you shipped her to a seldom-visited plantation in the swamp to cool her heels, let your overseer deal with her as he saw fit, and moved on."

Mulder paused for breath, and Dana asked, "Is that true?"

"No," Waterston said too quickly. "Not a word of it, Puss."

"Is it?" She looked to Mulder.

He crossed to his desk and leaned down to unlock the bottom drawer. "I can prove it. I have letters. One from Nina wanting to know when her husband was coming home. Your mother's letters to you, Dana, and one of yours to your mother. Benjamin and Dori found it in the overseer's house on the plantation and sent it to me. You must have given it to the overseer to mail, but he didn't."

Mulder handed the stack of envelopes to Dana, who stared at them. Waterston started to snatch them away, but Mulder intervened, holding his hand up warningly.

"How did you get these? From my mother? From-" She stopped to examine the envelope. "Nina Waterston?"

"She's my sister, Mr. Mulder," Waterston said haughtily.

"She's your wife. Nina wrote to him at the end of the war, but he never received the letter, Dana. It was forwarded to Savannah, and to me along with Waterston's letter to you. Which I gave you," he added, as if that redeemed everything.

"You met this woman? In New Orleans? When?" Dana asked.

"During one of the trips when I told you I was looking for Sam."

"You knew Dr. Waterston was alive all this time?" she asked. She focused on Mulder, her eyes sparking dangerously. "And you did not tell me?"

"It didn't matter, Dana. Alive or dead, he wasn't legally married to you. I told you: if he had a placage mistress, he had a white wife. I didn't say it wasn't you. I didn't see the point in hurting you."

"The letters from my mother?" Dana still thumbed through the old envelopes. Her face flushed, and her hands shook. "How did you get letters from my mother?"

"I told you I have an address for her in New York," Mulder answered. "I stopped last fall on my way to Boston with Sam. She gave me those letters to give to you. She was worried about you. She didn't understand why you hadn't written, and why her letters to you were returned unopened."

"But- but you did not give them to me. They are open. Who opened them?"

Mulder took a deep breath, leaned back against his desk, and gripped the edge with his fingertips. "I did. I asked Byers to translate them. And," he hurried to add, "he realized what they were and refused to do it again."

"Who translated this?" She held up both the English and Gaelic copies of her letter to her mother.

"The same typesetter who does the journals. I'd asked him to do it a month ago and forgotten about it. I got it yesterday and hadn't had a chance to tell you. We've been, uh, preoccupied."

"You had a stranger read my letter to my mother," she said slowly, her cheeks going from pink to scarlet and her voice getting louder. "And make a copy in English so you could read it too?" 

"A month ago." He gestured broadly to demonstrate his innocence. "I didn't want you to read your mother's letters first and be hurt if there was something negative in them. If she was criticizing or blaming you... If everything was all right, I was going to give them to you; if not, I wasn't. As for your letter - I wanted to know what was wrong between you and your mother. I'd asked you a dozen times and you wouldn't tell me."

"Puss-" Waterston drawled.

"Oh, you can go to the Devil," she snapped angrily, standing up. The pile of yellowed pages and old envelopes fell to the floor. "You can go straight to the Devil!"

"Dana-" Mulder said, starting toward her.

"So can you!" she yelled, and stormed out.

*~*~*~*

It was the easiest thing in the world - not stopping her from leaving - but it felt like dying. Mulder remembered. First, the shock, then the cold clamminess of it, and the tingling numbness settling over his body and pulling him away from reality. Sounds and colors muted, and time dragged its feet so the last few seconds stretched into eons.

Mulder followed Dana to their bedroom, watching as she shoved a few things into a satchel. None of the expensive jewelry or gowns he'd bought her, but a change of underclothes, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and the framed daguerreotype of her father and brothers from her dressing table. If she added diapers and some baby clothes, she'd be taking the same things she'd arrived with.

He kept hearing Sam's voice inside his mind, pleading, 'Let her go, Let her go.'

"Dana..." This was not irreparable. He could say he was sorry. Block her path long enough for her Irish temper to cool. He could put his arms around her and they could agree he was an idiot. He could swear it wouldn't happen again, though they both knew it would. "You don't have to do this. Not like this. I said we shouldn't be together, but I didn't mean-"

"You meant you have no respect for anyone but yourself? You expect me to trust you completely, but you do not have the common courtesy not to open my mail? Or tell me the truth? I can run your house, balance your books, raise your children, and warm your bed, but you still treat me like I am a slow child? Was that what you meant, Mr. Mulder?"

"No, I meant-" He swallowed painfully. "I don't want you hurt. I'm trying to protect you. That's all I was doing. All I'm trying to do now. Can't you see I don't have a choice? Sam-" 

"It is not about Samuel. Or me. It is about you and what you want. That is all it is or ever will be about. You."

"Dana," he croaked as she stalked past him. "I'm sorry. Don't leave like this. Where are you going?"

"Go to the Devil," she repeated in a tone as cold as ice.

Mulder loped down the upstairs hallway after her. He took one stride for every two of hers, but still had to hurry to keep up. 

"No," he blurted as she stopped at the closed nursery door. He put his arm across the doorway. "You can't take her."

Dana struggled to push his arm down. "Get out of my way. She is mine, and you said I could take her."

"She's not yours. If Waterston finds out about Emmy, she's his," Mulder whispered hoarsely. "He'll take Emily and use her as a pawn to control you. I'm not letting that bastard raise my daughter."

"Move," Dana screamed, still trying to shove him aside. One hundred and ten pounds of her wasn't much leverage against a hundred and seventy pounds of him. She cursed him in Gaelic.

"Hush. Dana, if he knows about her, he can take her from you," Mulder hissed under his breath. "Like I can take Cally. You have to leave her here."

"Go hifreann leat! Go mbeire an diabhal leis-!"

"Quiet! Listen to me. You're not thinking. Why, after so long, has he come back for you? He'd have to suspect you're more than my housekeeper for me to pay taxes on a plantation neither of us own or live on. He knew you'd married and he knew where to find you; he didn't care. He'd moved on to someone else, but she's died or left him, so he's recalled his love for you. He doesn't want you; he wants to control you. If he has Emily, he can. You'll never be able to get away."

"Goddamn you! Goddamn you, Mulder."

"I think he has."

"Puss?" Waterston called from the staircase. "Is something wrong?" He pushed back his suit coat, and Mulder saw a pearl-handled pistol on his hip. "Is there something in you want?"

Cally was taking her morning nap, but Emily wasn't. She could hear them and call for her Dah-Dah at any moment. Waterston couldn’t miss a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child - the right age to have been conceived the last time he'd seen Dana - rushing to a dark-eyed, dark-haired man.

"No," Dana called. She stepped back. 

"Leave it, Puss. Leave him. I'll buy you whatever it is that you want."

She swallowed several times, staring helplessly at the closed nursery door.

"I'll take care of her. Of them." Mulder spoke around the wet lump in his throat. He bit his lip hard and added the most profound thing he could think of. "I love you. When you can, send a telegram. Let me know where you are and I'll send money. I won't write, and I won't come after you. Unless you decide to kill him. If you murder him, I’ll come and help you hide the body.”

She didn’t move.

“Go," Mulder urged her.

After another second’s hesitation, Dana turned and descended the steps. Mulder saw her shoulders rise and fall. On the landing, he watched her expertly persuade Waterston to turn back. 

Mulder followed slowly, feeling like he was underwater: close enough to see the surface, but too far down to ever reach it again. He stopped on the step where Waterston had been, while Dana knelt in the library. She gathered up the letters and shoved them haphazardly into the satchel. She snapped the satchel closed, returned to the foyer, and stopped. She looked around at everything except Mulder.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," Waterston offered.

"I am not your wife." In five words, she managed defiance, helplessness, and a hint of nefariousness. She added, “You will not forget,” in a manner double-daring the doctor to do exactly that. A puppeteer couldn’t have pulled Waterson’s strings more expertly. 

"I still love you. I want you to be happy," he said, oozing snake-oil charm. "Anything you want, Puss."

Footsteps creaked upstairs. The nursery door opened.

"I want to see my mother," she said crisply. She picked up her umbrella and clutched her satchel, her knuckles white. 

"We'll be on the next train north," he promised, and opened the front door for her. "There's a cab waiting. We can talk on the way."

She glanced up at Mulder, her eyes momentarily full of hurt and anger, and stepped outside. Waterston slammed the door triumphantly. Mulder stood on the stairs, immobile, and listened to the hooves clopping across the wet cobblestones as the cab drove away.

*~*~*~*

The dining room table seated twenty, though God knew why. Mulder couldn't remember more than a handful of people sitting at it at once. Not sure where to go or what to do, he took his place at the head of the table, looking down the polished expanse of dark wood. Maids came and went, casting curious eyes his way as they cleaned and dusted. Someone needed in the silver chest, and asked where Rebekah was; she had the key. A voice said she was at the market, and polishing the silver would have to wait.

'Let her go,' he kept repeating to himself silently.

The storm raged, and the rain struck the dining room windows in waves. He watched it for a while but turned as he heard footsteps. It was the little maid he'd seen Samuel kiss. He still didn't know her name.

"You- Do you know where my son his?" Mulder asked her abruptly.

She clutched a dustpan against her chest. Her hazel eyes were wide and uncertain.

"Is he at your home?" he said curtly. "Was he there last night?"

"No, sir," she managed earnestly. "No."

"Do you know where he might have gone? Did he tell you?"

"No, Mr. Mulder. He-he-he doesn't talk to me."

He went back to watching the rain against the window. The girl stood on the rug a few seconds, uncertain, before she hurried away.

He doesn't talk to me, either, Mulder told the dark sky.

Dana would... Dana would be okay. She would go to New York, visit with her mother. She’d send Mulder a telegram in a few days, and he’d send money. She'd rid herself of Waterston easily; that didn't concern Mulder. She would make a home in New York, and Mulder would send photographs of the girls. He would write to her about the children, and she would want to see Emmy and Cally. She'd want to see Samuel too, and perhaps - assuming Mulder could find Sam - Sam would want to see her. Perhaps, once her temper cooled, Mulder could accompany the children to New York. Dana remained his wife, and he couldn't see any risk to her in being in the same room. He and Dana might talk. Have dinner. Listen as Sam played guitar or cello. Go to the theater or for a stroll, hand in hand. A goodnight kiss, even. Plenty of married couples loved each other, but from separate bedrooms. Perhaps, after the children were asleep, if Dana invited him to her bed, he'd be very, very careful.

Mulder kept thinking of Anne, and of the sinking feeling he'd had at his parents' anniversary ball, when he'd gone after her a minute too late and never seen her again.

The grandfather clock ticked the morning away. A train whistle blasted in the distance.

"What are you doing here?" Rebekah's voice asked, from the doorway. "Are you sick? Why aren't you at work?"

"I'm, uh... I'm sitting." Mulder slouched in the elegant chair.

"Well, you can't sit there, Fox. You're in the way. Come in the kitchen. Have you eaten?"

"No," he remembered after some thought. He pushed the chair back and followed Rebekah.

"Miss Dana said I should get to the market early and she'd fix breakfast."

"She's, she's gone," he answered, feeling dazed. "She's not here."

Rebekah exhaled a 'these flighty young people' sigh and said, "Well, sit down. I'll feed you." She turned her back, stoking the kitchen stove and then reaching for a skillet. "What about my boy? Does Mr. Sam need breakfast or is he going to sleep all day?"

"He's gone too," he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen table.

"He's at the newspaper?"

"No, he's, uh, gone. I don't know where he is. He disappeared last night." Mulder picked up an apple and considered it thoughtfully. "He wanted me to leave Dana so she won't die. I wouldn't, so he left."

Rebekah turned toward him, holding her wooden spoon in midair.

"Dana's gone. She left a few minutes ago. I kept both girls." He turned his head toward the kitchen window. The sky promised the worst of the storm was still to come. "It's pouring rain. Dana took an umbrella, but I don't know if Sam did." 

Rebekah asked slowly, "Are you drunk?"

"No. Just very empty." He put the apple back in the bowl and looked at her. "Tell me I did the right thing, 'Bekah."

"I still have no idea what you've done."

"I let Dana leave. I made her leave, in a way. She's not safe with me. Sam's wanted us apart for months, but he's been afraid to tell me why. I realized it's because he's seeing the future if Dana and I are together. He's seeing Dana die having another baby. He saw Melissa die. He's seen Dana almost die once. It makes sense. He doesn't hate Dana; he's protecting her. He knows I love her, so in a way, he's protecting me, too."

Rebekah stared at him. Before he could move, smacked her spoon hard against his upper leg. "Are you insane?" she demanded. "Or blind? Or did I raise a fool?"

"What?" he yelped, rubbing his stinging thigh. "Stop!"

She swung again, her wooden spoon whistling, but he dodged out of its path. They'd perfected this game when he was nine, and he didn't care to revive it. "Damn it, stop. What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" The heat from the stove reddened her ruddy face, and the humidity from the storm turned her auburn curls to frizz. She pushed a defiant strand back from her sweaty forehead and wiped her hands on her apron angrily. "Fox, where did you get this 'seeing the future' nonsense? Miss Dana walked in on Mr. Sam kissing his friend. He's afraid she’ll tell you, I suppose."

Mulder tilted his head to one side, perplexed. "I know he's been seeing someone. I don't know who."

"The curator at the museum."

He paused, his mouth open, waiting for the punch line. "That's a man, 'Bekah. The curator at the Smithsonian is a man. A nice young man. He lets Sam sketch the exhibits at night, while it's quiet."

Rebekah nodded, unimpressed by his power of observation. Sam was her darling; in her eyes, the boy could hold up stagecoaches and still meet with her general approval.

"Sam likes girls, 'Bekah. He likes that, that, that girl." Mulder pointed vaguely toward the front of the house. "Why would Sam be kissing a man?"

"Don't make it right, but at that moment, I suppose he wanted to," she replied matter-of-factly. "Miss Dana told him not to be doing that."

"Absolutely he shouldn't be doing that. Sam's fifteen. He's a child. I-I'm going to speak with this curator fellow, damn it."

She still held the wooden spoon in mid-air, not threatening him, but making sure he paid attention. "Miss Dana beat you to it. Have you seen Mr. Sam's friend here since Thanksgiving?" She paused. "But Poppy kept telling him Miss Dana would tell you and you'd-"

"Poppy knew?" 

Rebekah sighed like there was a program to this play and he should consult it before asking questions. "What do you think happened between her and that slippery Alex fellow? She caught Alex trying to kiss Mr. Sam and was so angry she told your father. The Senator near killed Alex, and he had a few words for Mr. Sam, as well."

"But-"

"Mr. Sam's cello is in the library, and the symphony plays on Friday. If he ran away, he didn't go far. Just far enough not to have to face you. Close your mouth before it starts collecting flies and go after your wife. Whatever you did to Miss Dana, tell her you're sorry, Fox. And a fool. And try not to do it again."

"But-" Mulder started to object, but she raised her spoon. He backed away warily. "I don't know if I can stop Dana." 

"You certainly can't stop her by standing in my kitchen."

*~*~*~*

Mulder crashed through the stable doors and yelled, "I need a horse." The groom poked his dark head out of the tack room. "A horse," he repeated urgently. 

The groom continued rubbing saddle soap into a saddle with a rag, looking like he might consider stopping sometime that millennium. "Which one, sir?" he asked around the wad of tobacco in his lip.

"Any one! Pick one."

Lightning cracked across the sky, and the horses whinnied. Aramis snorted and kicked the back of his stall repeatedly. Porthos peeked out, looking for reassurance.

"Now, sir? It's raining, sir."

"Yes, now. Hurry." Mulder felt Dana getting farther away each second.

The groom spit languidly, unable to grasp the concept of 'hurry.'

"Well, lemme think. Porthos, he's favoring his left hock. I believe it could be his shoes. Then Athos..." He paused to spit again.

Mulder stalked past him. Mulder didn't have time for a litany of the animals' ailments, however riveting the groom might find it. He grabbed a bridle and flung open the first stall, drafting Aramis, who wasn't sure he wanted any part of that idea.

"Bring me a saddle," Mulder demanded as he forced the bit into the horse's mouth and buckled the bridle. "I need a saddle!"

"Will you be riding or hunting, sir? Or sidesaddle for Miss Dana?"

"Oh, for God's sake." He scrambled bareback onto Aramis and reined the horse toward the open door.

"Gonna get all wet, sir," the groom called from the tack room.

"Thanks," Mulder mumbled under his breath as the cold rain pelted him. Aramis slicked his ears back at the thunder and lightning. The storm had worsened as the morning wore on, so the wet streets were deserted except for a few cabs and empty streetcars. He kept his head low, his thighs tight against the horse, and squinted to see through the driving rain. The sky was so dark it seemed like late evening, creating a city of shiny black shadows. 

As they galloped down Massachusetts and approached New Jersey Avenue, five blocks from the depot, he heard train's whistle pierce the air. Three short blasts. It was approaching and stopping at the next station. He didn't know if it was Dana's train, but he kicked Aramis harder. The horse's hooves slid precariously as they rounded a corner at breakneck speed.

"Go, go, go." He whipped the reins against the horse's neck. Lightning crashed across the sky and the ground trembled in fear. Aramis grabbed the bit and bolted, and since he headed in the right direction, Mulder let him go. Thoughts swirled around his brain, one tumbling over another in an impossible jumble.

Sam. His son, and the only son he would ever have. Mulder's exposure to physical love between men had been Alex's unwanted kiss, Spender's perversions, and the effeminate male prostitutes he saw in alleys. It wasn't a line of thinking he applied to Sam, nor did it fit. Apples to oranges. Not his son. Sam liked girls and the girls liked Sam. Obviously, Rebekah was mistaken or Sam was very, very confused.

His father. Mulder found the notion of men together unsettling, but Father would have found it repulsive. He could imagine how harsh Bill Mulder's words had been: an abomination of nature, a Nancy-boy, a sodomite. He could imagine how harsh they'd sounded, especially to a boy who believed he was responsible for his mother's death.

Dana. What Mulder could say to get her to stay. Nothing, probably. Nothing short of throwing her across his horse, taking her home, and tying her to a tree in the backyard would get her to stay. At the moment, that sounded like a good plan.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mulder saw a dark shape approaching. He felt his body lurch forward as Aramis tried to stop. The horse's hooves scrambled to avoid a fast-moving cab turning the corner. Aramis sat on his haunches, throwing Mulder, who was unable to get his balance without stirrups, over his neck. 

Mulder tumbled head over heels, landed on his back, slid across the pavement and into something hard. The world went white-hot, and a heavy, liquid black.

"You all right, mister?" was the next thing he heard. Mulder opened his eyes to see Aramis standing nearby, sides heaving, head hanging low. The horse had a long gash down one foreleg, and held it off the ground. "Gotta slow down and watch where you're going, mister."

Mulder scrambled up. He pushed his wet hair back from his face and wiped his stinging hands on the seat of his trousers. Something dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away hurriedly.

"That horse is gonna need a vet, mister," the driver observed. "Or a bullet. You're gonna hafta pay for the damage to my cab."

"I-I will," Mulder stammered, trying to get his bearings. 

D Street. One block from the depot. A locomotive's whistle shrieked again. Two long blasts - it left the station. It could be the same train he heard earlier, or another; he didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. 

"Take care of my horse." Mulder backed away unsteadily. "I have to catch a train."

"Hey!" the incensed driver shouted. Mulder turned and ran, splashing mindlessly through the puddles. "Where are you going? I'll send for the police. I will. Hey! Get back here!"

The Washington B&O Depot was one of the busiest in America. Carriages jammed the road in front or it, waiting to pick up or drop off passengers. At one end, an unrelenting stream of wagons loaded and unloaded freight from the steel arteries of a nation. Produce, dry goods, mail, furniture, livestock, coal, lumber, munitions, soldiers, immigrants, and perfume all went by rail. 

The yard behind the depot was a chaotic maze of tracks and turntables and sheds. Arriving trains squealed to a stop and exhaled a relieved sigh of steam, while departing locomotives digested a bellyful of coal and water and eased away from the platform. Occasionally, a long freight train flew past, bound for Baltimore or Richmond, rattling the windowpanes and leaving behind a layer of soot.

As Mulder reached the front doors, he wiped his forehead again. His hand came away red and left a bloody print on the brass knob.

A half-dozen men yelled, "There's a line, mister," as he shoved through the crowd to reach the little window.

"The train to New York," Mulder said breathlessly. He braced his hands on the counter. "What track?"

"To New York?" the clerk echoed. "We don't have an express to New York this morning. Do you mean to Baltimore and on to-"

"Yes," Mulder shouted. "To Baltimore! What track?"

"Track four, sir." Mulder whirled, his boots squeaking against the wood floor. "But it's-" the clerk called after him. "-leaving now!"

Mulder sprinted through the lobby. He overturned chairs and dodged passengers and satchels. A porter maneuvered a large trunk out to the platform, blocking the doorway. Through the foggy window, Mulder saw a train sliding away from the platform.

"Move! Goddamn it."

The porter struggled with the trunk, getting it wedged tighter. In desperation, Mulder turned and raced for the front door and around to the loading dock. The train cleared the station, and gave two whistles and a belch of smoke as it began to gather speed.

He rushed after it, but skidded to a stop at the edge of the dock as another locomotive screamed by, dragging car after car of coal after it. Mulder braced his hands on his knees and watched helplessly. By the time it had passed, the end of Dana's train disappeared into the distance.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," he cursed at no one in particular. He stood among the wooden crates on the busy dock, jaw clenched, head pounding, and hands braced on his hips. He turned and sprinted into the depot again.

"Get the telegraph operator," Mulder shouted as the crowd parted, giving him a wide berth. The counter clerk leaned back warily as he approached. "Have him wire ahead. Have them hold the train at the next station. Don't let anyone on or off. I need another horse."

"We can't-"

"The hell you can. I own a quarter-million dollars of stock in the B&O Railroad. I'm Bill Mulder's son. Tell them to hold the Goddamn train!"

The clerk looked dubious. Another man muttered for Mulder to watch his language around the ladies. Standing in the middle of the depot like a lunatic, cursing, soaked to the skin, bloody and muddy, Mulder didn't look the part of a wealthy gentleman investor.

"Even if we could, sir, we can't. The telegraph lines are down. The storm and all. We have no way to contact the next station."

"When's the next train to New York?"

"To Baltimore?"

"Yes, to Baltimore," Mulder shouted. He wondered if the clerk would be more cooperative if grabbed by the lapels and dragged through the window and over the counter. "When is the train to Baltimore?"

The clerk leaned close and said in a soft, everything-will-be-fine voice, "The train left, sir."

"When. Is. The. Next. Train. Pointed. Toward. New. York?"

"It should be arriving on track one in about half an hour, sir," the clerk answered. An instant later, he yelled at the back of Mulder's head. "Sir! You'll need a ticket, sir."

Mulder stumbled through the door and out to the platform. He patted his pockets for anything exchangeable for a train ticket. His father's pocket watch: face cracked, hands stopped. No hat. No coat. No cash or coins. He didn't even have his keys. His boots or his wedding ring, he decided. Which would be worse to appear without in New York? His boots or his wedding ring?

He huddled under the eaves of the depot, working his ring over his scraped knuckle. 

A small figure in a dark dress sat on a bench at the end of the platform. Alone in the crowd, huddled under an umbrella, she stared at something on her lap. Around her, miserable porters lugged baggage toward the depot, and the arriving businessmen held newspapers over their heads, shouting instructions as they tried to protect their suits.

"Dana?" Mulder raised his voice to be heard over the storm and the trains. His vision was hazy, but he saw the figure look up. "Dana," he repeated, and a chill trickled down his spine. He commanded his feet to move, to get to her before she vanished.

"Mulder?" she said in surprise. "My God, what happened to you?"

"Everything." The cold rain pelted him as he approached. It plastered his hair to his skull and dripped off the end of his nose. His ruined shirt and undershirt clung like a second skin, and gravel from his collision with the cab was still ground into his palms. Blood came from somewhere, but he hadn't stopped to check where. It didn't seem important.

"There was a letter. In my satchel," she called. She stood, turning toward him. The wind whipped her skirt wildly, and her little umbrella strained under the force. "Did you put it there?"

"I didn't put anything in your satchel," he yelled back. “What are you talking about?"

"I found a letter from you. To me." She wiped either tears or rain from her eyes. "I have a ticket. I should be on the train. Your heart is in the right place, and you try so hard, but you should wear a sign saying 'heartbreak.' You will never change. I must be the world's biggest fool to be standing here."

"No, love; you're married to him." 

Thunder rumbled again, warning them. Lightning followed, crashing a jagged white finger across the dark sky. Dana put both hands on her umbrella, trying not to lose it to the gale.

"I love you," he yelled over the trains and thunderstorm and the pounding inside his head. "I do! I'm sorry. You can't leave, Dana. I can't let you go. You- you're," he stammered. "You're my lost half!"

"I am what?" Her hair blew loose from its chignon and swirled with the wind.

"My father had me read about them. Men and women used to be one creature, but the Gods were jealous of their happiness and split them, so each is half of a whole. Alone, unhealed. You're my other half. I found you."

"You found me? You got lost in a swamp and I found you." Sniffed uncertainly.

A porter passed between them, wheeling a huge Saratoga trunk. An engineer leaned out the window of a locomotive, trying to see he backed it into the waiting passenger cars. The links collided with a heart-stopping crash, and the engine added a lungful of steam to the storm, and reversed.

The conductor whistled and announced the Richmond train boarded. Passengers emerged from the depot. Young men turned their coat collars up and made a dash for it. A couple ran hand in hand - the husband trying to shield his wife with his overcoat. There were squealing children with mammies yelling for them to avoid the puddles. A trio of women with useless parasols and ugly little hats bemoaned the rain. They picked up their skirts and ran for conductor's waiting hand. The women leapt onto the metal steps in a flash of white petticoats and lace, and disappeared inside. At the end of the train, a groom struggled to get a nervous stallion up a wooden ramp and into a boxcar.

Mulder swallowed awkwardly, crinkled his forehead, and squinted against the rain. "Rebekah says Sam kissed a man," he called loudly.

Dana nodded. His chest tightened with the same sense of confusion and failure his father must have had when Mulder insisted on marrying Melly. He tried to comprehend why his son would choose a future filled with pain rather than the smooth path he'd envisioned.

"I don't understand why he-" 

A series of short, frantic blasts from a steam whistle interrupted him. Instead of stopping, the whistles continued until they blended into one long, desperate plea. Brakes squealed and thunder rolled through the ground.

Dana whirled, and the wind seized her umbrella and the letter. She tried to retrieve the limp sheet of paper, but Mulder reached forward and grabbed her wrist - poised to run, but not sure which direction to go or what the sound was. In the distance, metal gave way with a horrible shrieking and moaning sound. 

People panicked, stampeding blindly. Mulder put his arms around Dana, shielding her as best as he could. On the street in front of the depot, horses whinnied and snorted, and those aboard the Richmond train kicked frantically inside the boxcar.

Something exploded. Mulder pushed them both to the wet platform, and covered her body with his. Her damp hair pressed against his jaw, her hot breath panted against his neck. Around them, people shouted and screamed. Boots struck Mulder's back as a man scrambled over them. The frightened stallion broke free from his groom, and hooves clattered across the platform.

An unnatural stillness followed, with no sound except the wind and the rain punishing the wooden planks. Mulder raised his pounding head, and he helped Dana sit up. He looked around, struggling to focus his vision. 

Whatever happened, he expected to see smoking ruins and mangled bodies, but the depot appeared unscathed. Porters and passengers poked their heads out of the trains like gophers. The engineers and conductors shouted between the locomotives, yelling over the storm and the terrified crowd.

After a few seconds, Mulder heard a series of smaller explosions, like a distant battle. The crowd bolted again, trampling each other in their attempts to get nowhere.

"Mortars." Mulder still held Dana against his chest. He sniffed the wind, catching the peppery scent of gunpowder and hot metal. "Cannon fire. What the hell?" 

He squinted, barely able to see orange and red explosions against the black horizon, like fireworks. He surveyed them with a practiced soldier's eye and his body tensed in preparation for battle. 

"There's nothing in that direction to attack. No forts, no armory..."

Dana’s hair fell wildly around her face, and her wet skirt swirled over them like a shroud. "What is happening?"

"I don't know. It looks like we're under attack, but there's nothing out there except farmland and railroad tracks.” He realized, “It's a train. Dynamite. I- I think it's your train, Dana. It's hit something or it's being robbed. Those aren't cannons; those are boxcars exploding," Mulder said numbly.

"Oh my God," she said, half in realization and half in prayer. "Dr. Waterston is on the train. He is in the smoking car. He left me reading my mother's letters and went to smoke. He does not know I got off. I- Mulder, that cannot be what it is. I was on that train." 

"A passenger train hit a freight train carrying munitions!" a flagman yelled, relaying the message down the tracks.

Mulder smelled the barrels of gunpowder exploding inside steel boxcars. With the telegraph lines down, a passing freight train must have approached the station on the wrong track, colliding head on, at full speed, with the departing Baltimore line.

He heard gasps and sobs as the flagman's message reached the crowd in the depot. It was the Wednesday morning train to Baltimore, the fastest way to New York or Boston except the express. Mulder had taken it hundreds of times. Every seat was usually full, with men standing in the aisles and Negroes riding in the baggage car. 

"Oh God. That's your train, Dana." He watched helplessly as the explosions continued. He looked down at her and back at the horizon as the realization sunk in. He pulled her head against his chest, stroking her wet hair. "You would have been on it. I came after you, but I didn't make it in time to stop you. You should have been..." 

Two hundred passengers were dead in the train cars, but against all odds, Dana wasn't one of them. 

"I should have been," she echoed with the same certainty he had when he spoke of the battlefield near Chattanooga. "But I found your letter."

"You shouldn't have had the letter." 

A horse-drawn fire engine clanged past, on its way to do what it could, though the rain would put out the flames and Mulder didn't see how anyone could have survived such a catastrophe. He got to his feet, and helped her up. The world was starting to sway.

"Dana..." He wiped his forehead again and watched the rain wash the blood from his hand. He stared at it, mesmerized, and began to feel woozy.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Mulder?" She put grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Easy. What is wrong? You need to sit down."

"'Bekah hit me with a big spoon," he mumbled as she guided him to an empty bench under the eaves.

She knelt in front of him, pushing back his wet hair to examine his forehead. "Rebekah hit your head with a spoon?"

"No, I don't think so," Mulder answered. He looked at his hand again and at her. His insides started to shiver. Her face was out of focus, like a photograph when the subject moved. 

"You need to lie down and get out of these wet clothes."

He nodded obediently and started on his shirt buttons, but she stopped him. "No, not here. Wait. I need to get you home."

A passerby offered a handkerchief. Dana pressed it against Mulder’s forehead, putting his hand over it and telling him to hold it there and be still. She kept checking his head, looking worried. He heard frantic voices jabbering and feet rushing somewhere, but they were far away. His head felt heavy. His world slowed and simplified, reduced to its most important elements. He grabbed Dana's soggy skirt with one hand, anchoring himself.

"Dana, I still hafta find Sam." He lowered the handkerchief.

"No, you have to sit still. You are hurt, Mulder. You need a doctor."

"No, I gotta find my Sam." He spoked louder and tried to stand up. "He's my boy. I gotta find him. He doesn't know-"

Dana pushed him back again. "Hush. Calm down. He does know."

"Do you need help with him, ma'am?" a tall, passing stranger asked, towering over them. The rain dotted his spectacles and beaded on top of his bald head. "He looks dazed."

Mulder stared at him, a candle of recognition flickering.

"Please send a doctor if you can find one," Dana said, and the man nodded and hurried away. 

She pushed his hair back from his face again. "I am going to find a doctor, or find a cab and take you to a doctor." She looked around for her satchel. "Mulder, do you have your wallet?"

He shook his head. "Do you want my ring?" 

"No, you keep it." She spoked in the same comforting voice the station clerk had used. "I do not need your ring. I need money for a cab."

"No, you can take it." He held it up to her.

"All right," she conceded, taking it. "Stay right here. Do not get up. Do not take off your clothes. I will be right back."

As she started to turn away, he grabbed a handful of her wet skirt again.

"Mulder, let me go. You are hurt. I have to find a doctor."

"You get a second chance," he told her, but she didn't seem to understand. "Take care of Sam. He needs someone to take care of him. Take care of the girls. And yourself."

"I will," she agreed. "Of course, I will. Mulder, try to stay awake. Do you understand?"

Mulder nodded and let go of her skirt. He wrapped his arms around his chest as he tried to stay warm. He felt dazed and groggy, and the world began to seem far away. He wanted to close his eyes and slip into the deep blackness of sleep until it was time to wake again. "You'll come back? You'll find me?"

"I will come back; I will find you," she assured him. "Stay right here and do not go to sleep."

"I love you. Do not forget." Numbness began to creep over him.

"I will not forget," she promised, placating him. She slipped away: a small, hazy figure with auburn hair vanishing into the endless sea of people around him.

Mulder closed his eyes and waited.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XIV

End: Paracelsus

 

Author's note: This is my preference for the end of this story. I like it better without, but for those who don't:

Paracelsus, Epilogue

*~*~*~*

Mulder never ceased to be awed by the miracle of the deceptively simple hand of Fate. The resiliency of the universe, how two souls found each other against all odds. A bayonet that didn't kill him, a happenstance meeting on a country road in Georgia, an answered prayer for hemorrhaging to stop, a misplaced letter, and a train that left on time. A series of seemingly chance events, and the unstoppable Mulder crossed paths with the redheaded Rock of Gibraltar. Isaac Newton raised his hands in surrender and backed away warily. Cupid scratched his head and consulted his superiors, but Fate folded his arms and waited, refusing to disclose his plan.

"Your soul recognized mine?" Dana echoed. She lowered her book and gave him a side-long skeptical look. "You are rambling again, Mulder. Be still or I am sending for the doctor."

"You know it's true," he insisted. 

She didn't answer, so he tried to sit up in bed, which made the room sway nauseously. 

"Tell me you didn't feel something when we met," he persisted. His head pounded. He braced himself with one hand and closed his eyes, trying to keep his balance and not vomit.

"I did," Dana admitted. He heard her chair squeak as she stood up. "I felt labor pains." 

Her hands guided him back against the pillows. He felt the cold washcloth on his forehead again and her hand against his cheek, checking for fever. His collision with the cab must have been worse than he realized, because he didn't remember coming home from the train depot. He didn't remember anything from the last few days, except knowing Dana kept a tense vigil at his bedside. Time blurred, marked by darkness or light outside the window, but each time Consciousness visited, she was there. Inside his mind, he could still see her - faint and veiled by the mist - waiting for him on the opposite shore. The figure had been clearer yesterday - or the day before. 

He wasn't sure what day it was.

Once the worst of the queasiness passed, he insisted, "Admit it. It's meant to be, Dana." He kept forgetting he could either move or get their bedroom to stay level, but not both. "It's destiny."

"It is a head injury, Mulder," she responded as she sat down again. "Now be quiet and rest."

He let his body go limp, frowning. His forehead throbbed despite the cold washcloth, and he stared at the bland ceiling. This wasn't the good kind of sick or injured: unwell enough to stay in bed, but well enough to enjoy the fuss she made over him. He just hurt.

"You don't think it was destiny?" he asked dejectedly. 

Dana didn't turn her head, but her hand slid across the sheets in search of his. She caressed his palm with her warm thumb, and intertwined their fingers. He raised her hand, kissed it, and closed his eyes. Fate leads the willing and drags along the reluctant. Death did not stop love. As the planet swirled through time, souls waited impatiently to become flesh yet again. For another chance. In each lifetime, some couples were meant to be. Some weren't. And some just wouldn’t wait their turn.

*~*~*~*

In 1860, before the war, the height of female fashion was an expansive, drooping silhouette, like an upside-down rose about to lose its petals: huge hoopskirts, deep V waists, sloped shoulders, and full sleeves. Women parted their hair in the center and arranged it in heavy coils over each ear. They even slouched slightly, contributing to the appearance of helpless delicacy.

By the fall of 1867, the silhouette inhaled and squared its shoulders. Hair was fuller and higher on the head, and skirts were narrower and flat in front, with soft bustles and polonaise overskirts revealing contrasting underskirts. As the nouveau riche gained power and the gap between the haves and have-nots widened, princess waistlines came in, good taste went out, and trim was the focus of the day. What wasn't pleated, ruffled, or festooned was covered in lace or netting. Stylish ladies looked like they were being attacked by a swarm of bows and braid. 

Except for Dana. Amish widows found Dana's wardrobe dull. 

"What about this one?" she asked. She’d appeared in the doorway of the ballroom in yet another dress.

Mulder stopped playing with Emily and answered, "It's beautiful," knowing his line. He could have answered without looking, but he never did.

She pivoted for his inspection. Her skirt swirled out so her ruffled petticoat and slippers showed. "This or the second one?"

He left Emily and ambled toward her in his sock feet, his hands in his trouser pockets. "Which one was the second one?" 

"The dark blue."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. They'd all been dark blue, though he thought one might have had some brown ribbon. She came closer, checking her reflection in the long mirrors. Her eyebrows knitted together, and she twisted from side to side, still dissatisfied. Over the last three days, the house got spit-shined within an inch of its life. Glass sparkled, wood gleamed, marble shone, and she'd almost taken her little sewing scissors to the hedges. The florist delivered a hothouse worth of bouquets and centerpieces, and dining room table was set for a king's feast. Linens were ironed, featherbeds were aired, and rugs were beaten senseless. Emily and Cally were squeaky clean and in their Sunday best - and ordered to stay that way. Mulder was bathed, barbered, and shaved, but escaped her scrubbing brush and lye soap. He found Dana's fluster faintly amusing, but had sense enough not to laugh.

"I like this dress," Mulder said decisively. "With your pearls. The necklace and the comb in your hair."

She looked at him like he was crazy. "I cannot wear pearls."

"Of course not," he responded. There must be an oyster ordinance; no pearls on Tuesdays in November. 

"What are you and Emily doing in here? Did you let her get dirty? Where are your boots?"

"We were sliding. Emmy and-" 

Dana interrupted by fixing his cravat, all but choking him with it. 

"Dear God, Dana. Calm down."

She examined him so closely he expected her to pull apart his lips and check his teeth. "The groom is bringing the carriage around," she said briskly. She jerked his vest smooth, pushed his hair back from his forehead, and seemingly decided he was serviceable. "I want you to leave for the station now, in case her train is early. I wrote her you are tall, with dark hair, and would be at the door to the depot."

"I've met your mother," he protested. "She knows what I look like."

"Dinner will be ready when you get back," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Meet her at the depot and accompany her here."

"You think I can manage without a map, love? Th-that's- that's-" he pretended to stutter. "Dana, that's four miles, round trip. There are turns and, and traffic." He widened his eyes and gnawed his fingers nervously. "I've only lived in DC for three decades. Are you sure I can do this?"

She flicked some lint from his shoulder. "I think you will manage. Please be on your best behavior, Mulder. Please. For me?"

"Ya mean mind my manners?" Mulder jammed his pinkie in his ear, wiggling it and acting like he found the sensation orgasmic. "Well, I s'pose I could - since ya done tole Ma I's fetchin' her," he drawled, hayseed style, and pretended to spit.

She reminded him, "Do not forget to get her bags from the porter," as she walked away, probably going to their bedroom to change yet again.

"Did ya warn her 'bout my flatulence problem?" he called after her, but got no response. 

Mulder exhaled, picked up Emily, and went to find his boots. 

Master of his house, lord of his domain and all.

*~*~*~*

Mulder had hoped Cally's hair would be auburn like Dana's, but it had darkened to chestnut brown. Lighter than his, but with the same defiant streak. The lamplight highlighted the reddish strands among the sweat-dampened curls, which was close enough to auburn for him. Mulder cradled her crown with his hand and leaned back in his chair, letting her sleep against his chest, heavy and safe.

Emily struggled to stay awake, but her eyelids slid lower with each blink, and her head bobbed against her grandmother's shoulder. Dana offered to take her, but Mrs. Scully shook her head and put her arms around the child, unwilling to surrender her granddaughter to the night.

Still holding Cally, Mulder maneuvered his wine glass to his lips. He drained it, set the goblet on the end table, and stretched his legs out, watching Dana with her mother. He understood an occasional word among the short, lilting vowels and soft consonants. Mrs. Scully had brought photographs and letters from relatives in Ireland, which were passed his way, along with an unintelligible explanation in Gaelic.

Mulder nodded, and everyone seemed happy with that as his contribution to the conversation. He stroked Cally's hair and watched the fire crackle. 

The full harvest moon rose pale yellow, lingering over the city and peering curiously through the window. The wine warmed his belly and made him notice his own slow, steady heartbeat. He closed his eyes, listening to it. Outside, autumn leaves skittered across the cobblestones, and a lone horse clopped purposely along.

"Samuel William," he heard Dana say. Mulder opened his eyes and turned his head questioningly. "She asked when we will have sons," Dana explained. "I said you have a son named Samuel William."

Mulder stroked Cally's head again and watched his fingers glide through her tangled hair.

Mrs. Scully looked to him and back at Dana. Dana’s mother sipped her tea politely and asked the obvious question.

"Nil se anseo," Dana answered, and translated, "He is away."

Mulder continued toying with Cally's damp curls as she slept.

*~*~*~*

Mulder never had a mother-in-law. Melly's mother died when she was small, so no one except Mulder’s parents questioned or cared how he treated his wife. By the standards of the day, he was an excellent husband. He never beat his wife. He didn't gamble away the family fortune or spend his nights in saloons. He'd never willingly strayed. He loved, protected, and provided amply for his family. Which didn't explain why, as the clock ticked toward midnight, he found himself avoiding Mrs. Scully's gaze.

Forgive and forget was an idyllic notion. Sift through the rubble, pick up the pieces, and rebuild was reality, and he and Dana were still rebuilding. And, while Samuel's absence left a gaping hole, they had two beautiful girls to center them as they reconstructed their lives. Dana made sure everything appeared perfect for her mother's visit, but underneath the polish, their foundation had been badly shaken. If he were the outsider looking in on Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder, their story would seem hopelessly romantic. If he were one of the principal players - or her mother - he'd have noticed their story wasn't so much a splendid tapestry as a diligent patchwork. 

Mrs. Scully told her daughter, "Slan," kissing her on each cheek, and put her arms around her neck.

"Slan leat, Mathair," Dana answered. 'Goodnight, Mother.'

Mulder stood behind Dana with one hand on her back, and held an oil lamp with the other. He studied the polished floorboards of the upstairs hallway. Presidents, generals, and foreign dignitaries didn't unnerve him, but Margaret Scully did, especially as he was about to take her daughter to bed.

He heard Mrs. Scully say his name as she released Dana. "She says thank you," Dana translated, and Mulder looked up. "To tell you to take good care of her baby girl."

"Tell her I will," he answered. "I know how she feels. I have my big stick ready to beat the boys off my baby girls."

That sounded more risqué than he'd intended. Dana must have tamed it down in translation, because Mrs. Scully smiled. "Slan," she told him.

"Slan leat, Ma'am," he answered, and waited until she'd closed her bedroom door before he turned Dana toward their room.

Dana shut their door quietly and headed for her dressing table. Mulder captured her sleeve as she passed and pulled her to him. He leaned back against the edge of the bed and guided her so she stood between his legs.

"You seem happy." He set the lamp on the nightstand. As she and her mother got reacquainted, one after-dinner bottle of wine had given way to another. It wasn’t the alcohol, though. Dana glowed as though a layer of hurt had been scoured away and more of her showed through. "Are you?" he asked. "Happy?"

"Yes."

"With me?" He liked to check occasionally.

"Yes," she whispered.

"I'm glad. Lock the door." He toyed with the buttons on the bodice of her dress. "And take this off."

"I will. I was going to. Let me-" She turned toward her dressing table. She usually changed into a nightgown and took down her hair before coming to bed. Her nightgown stayed on for about fifteen seconds, but she liked the pretense.

"No, now. Here. I want to watch. I want to see you." Under his steady, hungry gaze, she blushed. As she unbuttoned her bodice, she watched her fingers closely. 

"Mulder," she protested, seeming embarrassed. "Help me, at least."

"No, I like watching you. Take it off," he requested hoarsely.

Dana pulled the dress over her head and let it fall to the floor. She untied the waist of her petticoats and hoop, letting them drop as well. She stepped to one side, out of the pile of dark silk, crinoline, and starched cotton. She put her hand on his shoulder, steadying herself while she removed her slippers. As she straightened, he turned her hand over. He kissed the underside of her wrist and up to the inside of her elbow. An impatient man, he skipped to her neck, putting little kisses down her throat. She inhaled and pressed against his mouth, moving her body closer to his.

He put a final kiss on her collarbone. "Sorry.” He trailed his index finger down her chest and settled back against the bed again. “Please continue." 

She unfastened the tiny buttons on her corset cover, and leaned down again to pull off garters and strip off her stockings. Pantalets crumpled to the rug with a sigh. He gestured for her to turn so he could undo her corset. He untied the laces, working them loose, and followed his hands down her body with his mouth, kissing where the stiff fabric fell away.

Dana like soft underclothes, so her white chemise was whisper thin. He ran his hands around her waist, and higher, cupping and massaging her breasts through it. She sighed and leaned back against him, laying her head on his shoulder. His nose tingled pleasantly, and he nuzzled it against her neck.

His fingertips traveled to the apex of her thighs. He gathered the chemise so it crept higher and higher in half-inch increments. 

"Do you want this?" he whispered.

She nodded. 

"Undress me." 

She turned. Her pupils dilated with want, and the irises glittered, promising illicit things. She looked at him as she unfastened his shirt. His mouth watered; he could have devoured her whole and gone back for seconds.

"This is ugan." He trailed his finger along the top of her breast. He had an ear for languages, so he'd tried to learn more Gaelic in anticipation of her mother's visit. Unfortunately, the words he remembered best weren't appropriate around Mrs. Scully. "And cioch." He reached her erect nipple. 

Dana stripped his shirt off and pushed his undershirt over his head. Thunder rumbled as she started unbuttoning his trousers, and cold wind whistled through the open window near their bed.

"I should close that."

"Leave it," she said, and knelt in front of him. His stomach quivered in anticipation beneath her lips. He ran his fingers through her hair, finding the comb and pulling it out so the red curls fell over her shoulders and down her bare back. 

The window remained open. 

His boots landed on the rug beside her petticoat, followed in short order by his socks, trousers, and underwear. "Men have calg and magairle, but I'm not sure if 'magairle' means one or- Oh God." He bit his lip as she took him in her mouth. 

He arched his neck and clenched his molars as she fellated him. He’d long ago abandoned worrying about decency or sin. He loved his wife body and soul, and so long as Dana consented, he’d do so as he pleased. Still, if Dana’s mother wanted some air in her guestroom and decided to crack a window... 

In addition to the open window in their bedroom, Dana never locked the door.

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, put a hand on the back of her head, and except for an occasional moan or gasp, stayed silent. The air blowing beneath the window sill whistled mournfully, and the raindrops drummed on the tin roof above them. Dana’s lips felt tight and her mouth, hot. He heard the wet sounds of her lips sliding up and down his prick, and the rain, and his own desperate breaths. Her teeth grazed the head of his cock. Pressure built inside him, and being quiet required increasing effort. 

She stopped and kissed her way back up his bare his bare body, indicating she wanted more tonight than contributing to his satisfaction.

Mulder took the opportunity to lock the door and close the damn window.

He stripped off her chemise and cupped her backside with his hands. "Mas. Such a lovely mas. You have 'faighean' and I have 'slat' - cock, spear."

"You are drunk." 

Her caressed her skin. "So are you." 

She stepped back. “Mulder.” She put her index finger on the center of his chest and slowly pushed him back onto the mattress. 

"What, love?"

"No more talking." 

"Yes ma'am." He slid across the bed and adjusted the blankets up as she joined him. He took her in his arms, closed his eyes again and lost himself to the natural rhythm of night. The storm rumbled and flashed outside the window. The raindrops on the roof sounded fat and lazy, and in no particular hurry. As soon as he penetrated, he felt her body spasm. She opened her legs wider for him. The wine heightened every sensation, and each long, slow stroke lasted forever. The tightness built in his groin again. He closed his eyes, trying to endure the desperate pleasure of it.

"Do not stop." Dana’s lips brushed his earlobe and her hot breath teased the hairs on his neck. "Not this time."

He slowed his pace further, postponing his orgasm for as long as possible. He hated pulling out, but not as much as he'd hate making her pregnant again. "No," he said through his teeth. “It's too soon.”

"Emily is two. Cailin is almost one."

"No," he repeated breathlessly.

"You do not want a baby?"

Yes, he wanted another baby. A son. A son he would be home to raise instead of being at school and war. A son he wasn't a stranger to.

Yes, he wanted another baby. Dana liked being pregnant and he liked seeing her pregnant. They had the means to lavish their children with every luxury. If she was one of those women who gave birth as easily as an alley cat, he'd welcome a dozen babies, but she wasn't.

Dana had stopped responding. 

He stopped and pushed up on his elbow, studying her in the darkness. "Dana, you don't remember Cally being born, but I do. I can't-"

"But-"

"The doctor said no," he said in four even words. "No more."

He'd never told her. He'd made excuses and danced around the issue for months, but never specifically said 'no more babies.' 

She tried to make eye contact, but he focused on the pillow.

"But, but he could be wrong. Mother could be here, and I would-"

"No," he repeated firmly.

Her lower lip trembled.

She was his life, his phoenix from the ruins. Mulder owed her everything, and he'd gladly give it to her. He'd slash his chest open and offer her his heart, if she said to. 

"Dana, no.” He pressed his face into her hair. “Please don't ask me to do this."

*~*~*~*

He couldn’t explain science behind it, but all the alcohol in his body exited along with semen. As Mulder’s pulse and breathing returned to normal and a contented glow spread over his body, his thinking became much clearer.

He lay in bed with his arms around Dana's shoulders and her head tucked under his chin, and imagined he saw the Menses Fairy in the corner, packing his things to vacate for the next nine months.

The lazy autumn rain continued, beating a slow waltz on the roof and splattering the wet leaves on the street. The wind whispered against the window. 

"You are angry," Dana said softly.

"I'm not angry." The loudness of his voice in the dark bedroom surprised him. "I don't know; maybe I am. It seems senseless, Dana. If you want another baby, I'll get you a baby. The world is full of unwanted children. We'll adopt a whole litter, if you want."

"Is that what you want?"

"I want to open my eyes every morning for the rest of my life and find you beside me."

That sounded so sugary-sweet he expected her to laugh, but she didn't.

She shifted a few inches. "Do you want Sadie here?" Dana whispered. "If you do, she could come back. You never asked me, Mulder; you sent her away."

He gathered his thoughts before he answered. "I don't want her here. Maybe I’m an awful man, but I don't. My aunt adores her, and she deserves to be adored." He stroked her hip. "Poppy's dead. I asked the police to notify me, and they did. Last week. I arranged for a funeral last Saturday."

"I did not know you went to a funeral."

"I didn't," he said.

"Did you get word to Samuel?"

Mulder knew Sam had been in Boston, and had visited his aunt on Rhode Island, most likely to see Sadie. Rebekah refused to give details, but he was certain Sam spent time with her as well. Mulder asked, and she assured him the boy was fine. 'Finding his way,' as she put it. Mulder wished he'd find his way home. They left for Paris in a month, and he couldn't imagine going without Sam.

"I told Rebekah." A second later, he added, "I left a note at the Smithsonian for his curator friend. He wasn't there, but I gave it to his secretary."

"And?"

He admitted, "And I stood outside the curator's flat all afternoon."

"Was Samuel there?"

"Yes." He took a breath. "Sam came to the window. He saw me, but he didn't come down. I knew he didn't want me to come up." He picked up a lock of her hair and wrapped it loosely around his finger. "He stood there, Dana."

"He did not run."

"No, he didn't. I guess that's an improvement."

*~*~*~*

"People are staring, Mulder." Dana kept her eyes on the empty chairs onstage and barely moved her lips as she spoke. "Please sit still."

"I'm trying." He tugged at his collar. He'd never known a tuxedo to be so uncomfortable or a performance to take so long to begin. "Maybe we shouldn't be here. Maybe we should leave."

He’d been on the fence about this evening since this afternoon, and started to turn back several times between home and the symphony. Dana must have had her fill of his jitters, because she answered crisply, "All right. You leave. I will stay and listen to Samuel play. You may pick me up afterward."

"I'm not joking, Dana."

"Nor am I. Sit still."

Mulder checked his new pocket watch. He slouched forward and leaned on the brass rail around the edge of their box. The first musicians trailed across the stage, bringing their instruments and sheet music. Mulder scanned the men's faces, looking for Sam's features above the identical white collars.

Dana put her hand on Mulder’s back. "There he is," she said softly.

Sam carried a cello in one hand and his bow and sheet music in the other. He turned sideways as he made his way through the string section. Several performers spoke to him. Sam answered cordially as he took a seat - the closest to the edge of the stage.

"He's first chair." Mulder still leaned on the railing, chin on his fists. Between May and November, Sam had moved from second chair to first.

His son set his sheet music on the stand and drew his bow across the delicate catgut strings. He adjusted the pegs, listening. Only because Samuel once told him, Mulder knew the humidity affected the instrument, as did the heat from the gaslights. Other musicians in the string section waited. Sam nodded. They raised their bows and tuned their instruments to his. The boy gestured to one man with his bow and played the note again. The man tuned, tried again, and Sam nodded. 

Mulder watched in wonder. His son, who had trouble holding a conversation with him, thought nothing of correcting a fifty-year old world-renowned musician. Sam didn’t notice the audience buzzing expectantly, or the lights, or anything except translating Mozart's Requiem from ink on paper into magic. After the chorus filed onto the raised platform behind the orchestra, the musicians made their final adjustments and waited for the maestro. 

Then, Samuel look out at the audience.

"Mulder." Dana touched his arm and nodded toward the balcony. Instead of looking to their box, Sam scanned the rafters. 

"Is he looking for Poppy?"

"No. Lower," she instructed.

Mulder picked up their opera glasses and turned them on the seats at the back of the theater. Old, wealthy families had boxes, and newly wealthy families competed for ground seats in front of the stage. The highest balcony was the Colored section, but students or similarly impoverished but musically inclined folk filled the inexpensive seats below. His search stopped on a young man with sandy-colored hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. He sat in the first row of the upper balcony, watching Sam, his chin propped on his fist.

"His name is Robert, Rebekah says," Dana supplied.

Mulder nodded. He couldn't call him 'the curator' forever. 

"I'll know what to put on his tombstone." Mulder adjusted the opera glasses and continued studying him. To his surprise, the young man looked back, worrying his mouth nervously. Robert glanced to the stage.

"Samuel is watching you," Dana said quietly, but over the polite applause as the maestro took the stage. 

Mulder lowered the opera glasses. He turned and found Sam's brown eyes focused on him uncertainly.

Now Mulder spoke without moving his lips. "What do I do?" 

"Applaud," Dana answered, smiling and clapping proudly.

He thought Sam smiled back, but he wasn't certain. 

The maestro raised his baton, the lights dimmed, and the requiem began.

*~*~*~*

Mulder disliked hearing parents say they had a favorite child. A father naturally treated his oldest son differently but making distinctions beyond was cruel. A baby couldn't help the circumstances of its birth, or whom it favored, or for whom it was named, or any of the other frivolous reasons parents to favor one child over another.

Mulder had a favorite.

Samuel was his eldest, and the sole male heir of the Kavanaugh and Mulder families. Mulder was sixteen when Sam was born, the world was shiny and new, and each time those tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb were miraculous. Sam was Bill Mulder's pride and joy, and - although Father never said it - partial consolation for his son's ill-considered choices. Sam had been a sweet, thoughtful boy, and he and Mulder grew up together: allies, playmates, partners in crime. Morning baseball games, afternoon rides in the woods, evening bedtime stories. Over the years, Sam kept Mulder steady, and gave him a reason to push onward as his dreams crumbled. Mulder saw so much of Sarah in Sam, as if she'd left him as a teenage girl and returned as a son.

Sam was his favorite.

Emily was a child of hardship, born in a slave's bed and rocked to sleep in a slave child's abandoned cradle. Mulder was thirty-one years old and ready to believe his life was over. Emily brought hope miracles still existed in a dying world and evidence of the hand of Fate. She was the little girl he should have had, but didn't. When he proposed to Dana, he wanted Emily in his life as much as he wanted Dana. Mulder was 'Deh-deh' in a way he hadn't been with Sam. He changed diapers and walked the floor and performed all manner of unmanly tasks. He'd been fascinated by how much Dana loved her daughter, and he couldn't help but be swept along.

Emily was his favorite.

Cally was a child of privilege, born into every luxury. She was the first baby Mulder wanted even before the moment of her conception. Cally was his: echoes of his ancestors and a promise of immortality. In the first month after her birth, Dana remained too ill to get out of bed, so he did everything but nurse her, forming a bond he never had with another human being. Cally was a child of healing and faith - proof love conquered most, and determination the rest.

Cailin was his favorite.

The only reason Mulder brought Emily to their bed last was because she tended to kick, and the only reason Samuel was absent was because Sam chose to be.

"I am waiting for you to return carrying my mother," Dana mumbled as Mulder laid Emily beside Cally, and slid under the covers with them. He rolled on his side, draped his arm across both girls, and rested a hand on Dana's waist. "Do you think you can sleep now?" she asked softly.

"I'm trying. Do you want me to leave? You need to rest. Am I keeping you awake?"

"No, you are fine."

Mulder nodded, rustling his pillow. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed four am. The lost time. Too late for night, but too early for day. Violet-black no time. 

He exhaled and shifted his legs. "You took a nap this afternoon, before the symphony. You don't usually nap anymore." He talked in Dana's general direction. 

She replied noncommittally, "No, not usually," as she lay across from him in the cool arms of darkness.

"You seem tired lately. Do you think-"

"It is too early to tell."

"But maybe?" 

"Maybe," she conceded. "Would you be happy if I am?"

"Of course," he answered quickly, and chewed his lip a while. 

Mulder suspected Dana’s eagerness for a son was her mother’s doing. Even as a grown woman, Dana yearned for her mother's approval. By not being pregnant ten months out of every year, Dana failed as a wife, and God forbid Dana fail anyone. 

"Samuel played well," Dana whispered a few minutes later. "He did not seem upset at us attending."

He smiled sadly, amazed at how clearly she saw into the muddy waters of his heart. "No, he didn't." 

Sam performed with his usual effortless grace. The requiem ended and the gaslights brightened. He'd gathered his sheet music. Then, as if remembering, he raised his bow to the box where Mulder and Dana sat, and waved like a small boy. Mulder’s hand shook as he waved back. Samuel turned and slipped off the stage. They'd waited in the carriage in front of the theater until midnight, and until Dana fell asleep again, but Sam must have left through the stage door.

As they lay in bed, Mulder told Dana, "I've been reading about the Irish legend of changelings. How fairies steal beautiful human children and take them to a realm of magic and music, where nothing can harm them. There's no time there, no pain. The fairies give them old, magical souls; you can see it in their dark eyes." He paused. "I wonder sometimes if Sam's like that. Ethereal. Otherworldly. The fairies stole him and I stole him back. Maybe I shouldn't have. Maybe I should-" He swallowed, embarrassed. Some things didn't sound as good out loud as they did in his head. “Not literally, of course.”

"He is a boy, Mulder. A talented, frightened, confused, lonely boy," she answered. "Trying to find his place in the world."

"He's my boy, Dana," he said for lack of something profound. He stroked his thumb over the soft fabric of her nightgown. "I don't understand him any more than my father understood me, but I love him."

"He knows."

He exhaled again and rolled to his back. He wedged one hand behind his head. Emily rolled with him, and flung a warm arm across his chest. Cally shifted against Dana, her little fingers splaying and relaxing.

"I love you, too. I don't want you to ever doubt it again."

"I know. You are a good man, Mulder," she assured him.

"I try," he told the ceiling, watching the shadows. After a moment, Mulder shifted again, rearranging his bare feet. "I damn sure try." 

"You are- You...” She inhaled. “You have the gentlest heart and the thickest head. When you love someone, you love flat out, headlong, no holds barred.” She used an American idiom. “It is overwhelming. Unsettling. You are intense, like the center of a flame so hot it burns blue. As beautiful and wonderful as it is, it is also frightening."

He turned his head. Dana had a hand on her flat stomach. 

"Do I frighten you?"

"Not one bit," she answered. 

"You ran," he reminded her.

"I stopped. And you came after me."

"I can't go after Sam. He needs to find his own way back."

She nodded and closed her eyes.

"It's never going to be perfect, Dana. I'm trying, and I know you're trying. You deserved a knight in shining armor-"

"My knight in shining armor got lost in the swamp. He is not good with directions."

Mulder chuckled, jostling Emily. "You like Mozart." He reached over to toy with a lock of Dana’s hair. "The symphony performs again tomorrow tonight. We could go, if you want."

"I want," she answered softly. "Do you want?"

"I want."

*~*~*~*

It was true; everyone who was anyone had been to Europe. 

Children traveled with their families to winter in Venice or Naples, but Mulder's parents had preferred to winter at their home in Boston. Their holidays were scheduled around his father's Senate duties and, given the time involved in sailing to and from Europe, it wasn't worth the trip. 

Newlyweds went on extended honeymoons, settling into married life and sometimes returning to America after the birth of their first or second child. Mulder's didn't remember much about the elaborate wedding his mother threw together, and his and Melly's honeymoon was spent in his bedroom at his parents' house, with his queasy, fifteen-year old bride spending most it vomiting into the washbasin. The idea of being married seemed so implausible, in short time before he left for Harvard, he and Melissa twice forgot everyone expected them to sleep in the same bed and went to their separate bedrooms.

Young men received a grand tour as a university graduation present from their parents - theoretically to see the art and architecture and enrich their minds. The only things generally enriched were the young men's knowledge of European pubs and brothels, although a few brought back Egyptian mummies or pieces of Stonehenge as souvenirs. By the time Mulder graduated from Harvard, Sam was three years old, and Melissa was in no condition to travel. His father bought Mulder a fledgling newspaper instead.

This was Mulder’s European tour. Many years belated, with his one-year old daughter, his two and a half-year-old daughter, his mother-in-law, and his wife, who suffered from another bad bowl of Harvey's chowder. 

Dana looked less green upon returning to the box, so Mulder asked hopefully, "Better?" 

She nodded as she resumed her seat beside him. She arranged the endless yards of red silk away from his feet. 

"I thought it was called morning sickness for a reason," he added softly.

"One would think." She sighed, and the tops of her breasts rose and fell above the gown’s low-cut neckline. 

"Do that again," he requested.

Without looking at him, she flicked her fingertip lightly against his earlobe.

"You adore me," he assured her. He leaned back and draped his arm around Dana's bare shoulders. 

"Some days more than others." 

He leaned over and planted an open-lipped kiss on the side of her neck. The act would have scandalized Washington. Paris didn’t bat an eye. 

"What was that for?" she asked questioningly.

"Can't I kiss my wife if I want to?"

"I suppose you can." 

He kissed her again to prove he could. He relaxed in his seat and kept an eye on the orchestra pit in front of the stage. Most of the chairs in it remained empty, and he saw no signs of life behind the closed velvet curtains on stage. Mulder checked his watch, dropped it back in his pocket, and straightened his tuxedo jacket. "Eight-twenty," he informed her. 

"The concierge said the opera always starts late. The girls are fine; mother has them. Are you in some hurry?"

"I have plans for that dress." He stroked his fingertips up and down her bare shoulder.

"Does this plan involve the huge canopy bed in our hotel room, a length of silk, and a small piece of ice?"

"Yes," he managed to squeak, and checked his watch again. 

Still eight-twenty, damn it.

Dana raised her gloved hand, signaling to a dark head looking up from the orchestra pit. Instead of waving back, Samuel turned slowly and scanned the crowd. Gounod's opera was a success, and every seat from the floor to the rafters was full. The new, larger Paris Opera House was being built, but more than a thousand spectators waited impatiently, eager to see the final performance of Faust in the Theatre-Lyrique. 

Mulder waved as well, but Sam continued looking to the boxes on the opposite side of the huge hall, his back to them. 

Getting frustrated, Mulder said, "I told him where we'd be."

"He has your sense of direction," Dana responded. She leaned over the edge of their box so Sam could see her. The male half of the audience waved back enthusiastically, but Sam continued searching. His head disappeared momentarily and reappeared higher; he stood on a chair. The other musicians began taking their places, and Sam's shoulders slouched dejectedly. 

"Sam!" Mulder called sharply, his voice lost in the noisy hall. "Samuel!"

"Mulder, he does not see us," Dana said urgently. 

The gaslights begin to dim, warning the audience. In desperation, Mulder put his fingers to his lips and whistled loudly.

An appalled silence fell over the crowd. Mouths hung open, and opera glasses swung and refocused, trying to see who'd be so rude.

"Americain," the man in the next box said distastefully, wrinkling his nose.

Dana covered her face with her white-gloved hand, but Sam spotted them and grinned, waving proudly.

"Wave, love," Mulder encouraged her.

Dana raised one hand, but still shielded her red face with the other. 

Satisfied, Sam disappeared to his place in the string section, and the gaslights dimmed to faint flickers. Mulder settled back, put his arm around Dana again and ignored the stares. 

The orchestra played the introductory notes. The curtains parted, revealing Faust moping around his laboratory, despairing his search for a solution to the riddle of life has been in vain. Angry, cheated, Faust called on the Devil, offering his soul for a second chance.

After a few minutes, as Mulder felt Dana's warm head against his shoulder. "No spitting," she cautioned him.

"I wouldn't dream of it before intermission."

*~*~*~*

End: Epilogue


End file.
